Cecilia

The birds sing to grim spirits; the world has momentarily stopped.

How are we to comprehend the plans of the heavens! God, where is the goodness in this?



The rain keeps us company on your birthday.

On a Loftier Love

Beethoven composed his Opus 90 Sonata in the year of 1814, during which I speculate he would be surviving the aftermath of his torrid love affair of 1812: his Immortal Beloved. In this late sonata, we hear all the thunder and ferocity of unrequited love. Especially glorious is the second movement with its serene nostalgia.

I don't understand. What is an Immortal Beloved?

Such a question is vastly troubling, for after some consideration, this question only suggests a very pessimistic outlook: Does Immortal Beloved even exist? For it is so rare, so precious, that surely it can only be an Ideal.

I can only imagine that this kind of love is born with the purest intentions. The two should converse with like-minded intellects and fuel each other's passions. They giggle exuberantly over silly anecdotes, yet endlessly debate the weightiest questions of existence. They support and defend each other's character; together they are valid, they are each other's validation. They are so humbly moved by each other. They share a connection deeper than time, and as familiar as the scent of our mother. They are strangely similar creatures, inexplicably drawn together.

But further, their love is bound by eternity. This is what baffles me. That despite earthly circumstance -- time, distance, for instance -- they continue to love. That even if they betrayed each other, were stripped naked and left undignified, they still painfully and necessarily continue to love. And this kind of union is only joined by the heavens.

Most certainly, Beethoven understood something far beyond my comprehension in his Opus 90.

What does it matter what you call it?

He called it a triangle. She called it a square.

But they both knew it was really a circle.

Changing trades is nothing, but to give up what you know, your master craftsmanship, is not easy. A fine craft without employment and you're stuck, you have to resign yourself. But resignation isn't easy either. It was hard to have one's mouth shut, not to be able to discuss really, and to take the same road every morning with an accumulating fatigue, in order to receive at the end of every week merely what they are willing to give you, which is less and less adequate.

-- "The Silent Men", Exile and the Kingdom, Albert Camus


We pay reverance to security in worldly matters -- in our finances, our careers, our families -- such that we wake before the faintest glimmer of light to sweat and toil for this security. And, once we achieve this security, we breathe a sigh of relief that finally, we are worthy citizens of this world. We are, in essence, fighting to be worthy.

So why are Camus' lines so deeply troubling? Realize his distinction between a trade and a craft. Not one is better than the other. But the craftsman devotes an entire lifetime to the mastery of his craft. Master craftsmanship, as Camus calls it, is the meticulously refined expression of a Life. It carries with it the regret of past times and the tired perseverance of worked hands. Master craftsmanship is, and only is, the result of extreme criticism, rejection, failure, and solitary darkness. It is, to say the least, highly personal. And the craftsman does, at the end of the week, receive a minute compensation from those who hardly begin to understand, let alone appreciate, the craft. See, a master craftsman has nothing to fall back on: What have you left besides this One skill that signifies your hope, ambition, love, hate, past and present? Is this minute compensation worthy of one's Life?

Craftsmen, you are every day, in essence, fighting for your Life.