I’ve spent much of today reading comics. It started with a Quora question, I went through some Calvin & Hobbes, then moved on to the archives of Zen Pencils, many of which I’ve already seen and enjoyed (thanks to Facebook). As a new visitor to the Zen Pencils website, I was delighted to find much more than just an inspirational quote with pretty illustration. Each of the comic strip was accompanied by a thoughtful blog entry by the artist, who not only introduces the author of the quote and the background, but also why he was inspired by the quote itself. So instead of spending a minute or two on each comic, I ended up spending hours reading the stories associated with each quote: an essay by Albert Camus, an interview with Stanley Kubrick, Sylvia Plath’s poems, Robert Ebert’s blog… The list goes on.
Why do people like quotes so much? Some because they say exactly what we feel but couldn’t put into words, and others because they make us feel when there seems to be nothing left in our hearts. Sometimes they comfort, like a long lost friend who knew just what to say when you are sad. Sometimes they scold, like a tiger mom who just can’t stand to see you being a couch potato. Sometimes they inspire, as a kind teacher bestowing years of wisdom to open your eyes to new dreams, far horizons, or simply the truth.
Not that anyone is wise enough to know the truth when it comes to life. For the most part, we must determine our own truth. It was easier as a child, we mostly just accepted what the adults told us. Example 1: A stork brought you to us. You are a gift from an angel. We found you in the dumpster (I believed it for years after my mom told me this once. This could be the original source of my insecurities). When we grow up it’s a bit harder, finding ourselves surrounded by conflicting truths, and no one who can truly claim to be the authority. Example 2: There is no god. There is one God. There are hundreds of gods. You can become god. The more I know, the more I know what I do not know, and I sometimes crave to go back to the days when I can simply accept what others say as the truth. Perhaps then life would be easier.
I read The Tibetan Book of the Dead during the long and quiet car ride up and down the mountains of Tibet. The book’s original name literally translates into Liberation Through Hearing During the Intermediate State, but the translator probably thought it wouldn’t sell too many copies. It’s really an instructional book for guiding the recently deceased person through the 49 days between the moment of death and the beginning of rebirth. The book contains fantastic descriptions of gods, somewhat monotonous prayer recitations, and many dos and don’ts in your dead-but-not-really state. More than anything else, I was surprised by the concept of grace throughout the process. My rudimentary understanding of Buddhism has always given me the idea that karma is the main determinant in whether one can achieve nirvana. Yet it seems that if you truly believed, then the gods will try over and over again (49 times to be exact!) to get you out of the cycle of rebirth.
For the longest time I was cynical about the idea of grace. The idea that, for absolutely no reason except for the power of faith, someone else will save you from your miserable existence and give you perfect love. I always thought you should have to try, to bring something to the table. You have to to be worthy. It seemed too easy, to receive the ultimate reward just for believing in something. Then slowly I began to learn that to truly have faith, to not waver in your convictions in times of hardship, to not question when everything seems so pointless or unfair, daring to remain faithful to your own truth with so many antagonistic voices shouting around you, is perhaps the most difficult thing in life, and makes one worthy beyond any words or deeds.
Every once in a while I stop and remind myself it’s the journey that defines my life, not the destination. Even if at some point I feel like I have everything I’ve ever wanted out of life, it’s not like I can just stop there (I guess I could, but why would I). I have to keep going, and unfortunately life never stays in that perfect moment. I’ll come down from my high, and reach some lows, and start to hope things will pick up again. C’est la vie.
The destination hardly matters, because in the end, there’s only one destination — we all die. As I look around my current stop, and look back on the path that led me here, I’m happy to say that it’s been a hell of a ride so far.
Leave a Reply