Simple Economics.

The story of the Ik tribe in Uganda frightens me. Is it truly possible to evolve in a way in which you no longer feel emotion? 

Ackerman's description of the Ik in A Natural History of Love is chilling: "After only three generations of drought and starvation, the Ik became hostile, selfish, mean. They had abandoned love along with other so-called virtues because they could not afford them. It was simple economics." And even after the drought had ended the Ik were incapable of regaining emotion... I don't want to believe that it is possible to lose the ability to feel emotions and love.

I have no evidence for the following claim, but I want to think that it is more a case of losing the ability to express emotion than a case of actually losing emotion itself. In her assessment of the tribe, Ackerman mentions that when they made eye contact with each other they would look away in embarrassment. Embarrassment is an emotion. I think that this instinct is a subtle indication of the emotions that are being stifled inside. Somewhere buried deep inside I would like to think that the Ik still feel emotions.

But maybe I just look for the best in people.

Trapeze Artist.

Love is a dangerous thing. It seems to require a denial of all human instincts. Personally, I always want to protect my heart from harm and therefore I put up walls and guards to keep myself safe... But as C.S. Lewis reminds us, to love is to be vulnerable. 

Ackerman describes the terrifying feeling of love: "He is like a trapeze artist swinging out over an abyss; ultimately he gives up hope of finding another pair of hands waiting to catch him, and he just lets go." It goes against all of our rational mind, but love asks us to jump blindly and hope that we are met halfway.

Love requires sacrifice on a multitude of levels. It is a scary thing to let go and fall into the abyss, but this sacrifice of personal welfare and safety is the pinnacle act of love. We must be vulnerable in order to truly love.

Pathetique.

It is true that Beethoven's piano sonatas have a singular effect on the heart. The yearning and intensity embodied in the music can wrench any lovesick heart. In A Natural History of Love, Diane Ackerman describes the beauty of Beethoven: "No composer personified the passion of the age better than Beethoven, a tempestuous and defiant man who wrote avant-garde music full of majesty and organized alarm. Hampered by the rigors of traditional music, he fed his own anger, heartache, and struggle into his work. Expressing so much feeling would have been impossible in shopworn musical terms, so he invented a new vocabulary, one richer and more volatile, one closer to pure emotion... As the old rules crumbled, Beethoven's music became even more personal, alive with suffering and intensely human."

I have played my fair share of Beethoven. In high school I learned movements of both Pathetique and Moonlight. The first movement of Moonlight Sonata is one of the most satisfying pieces to play while wallowing in misery. I greatly enjoy closing my eyes while playing Moonlight and simply stewing in Beethoven's despair. In contrast, the first movement of the Pathetique personifies the anger and frustration brought on by passion. It is highly therapeutic to bang away on the piano in the form of the Pathetique.

Gritted Teeth.

"Inspiration usually comes during work, rather than before it."

-- Madeline L'Engle

I was particularly struck by the truth in Madeline L'Engle's assertion. It is true in life as it is true in writing: it is choice to write a paper, to cook dinner, to exercise, to love someone well... All of these are highly rewarding but often require gritting of one's teeth. The worthwhile things in life are rarely easy. If you have to tie yourself to your chair to write, then do it. Inspiration rarely strikes like a bolt of lightning.

Often at the beginning of a task the future seems insurmountable and hopeless, but it is a choice to commence chipping away at the issue. Inspiration will come with the methodical production of a paper as one sits glued to the keyboard.

And anyways, it's okay to have shitty first drafts.

The Gift of a Quilt.

Meg Buzzi's account of her grandfather's poignant letters which covered a thirty year span of the family's story remind me of my grandmother's quilts. Nanny has been quilting as long as she can remember. Her mother, my great-grandmother, taught her to quilt when she was a little girl. Quilting is a tradition that was passed down from her mother, her mother's mother, her mother's mother's mother, etc. Accordingly, Nanny taught me to quilt when I was a little girl. Granted, I never made more than a couple squares, but I learned and appreciated the craft.

Quilting is one of the most time consuming activities that my grandmother engages in (second only to cooking, I would guess), and it is also one of the most selfless activities. She spends hours, days, weeks, and months producing beautifully intricate quilts and then consequently gives away the item which has so absorbed her energy.

A few years ago Nanny called all of the grandchildren into the living room on Christmas day. We were amazed by the sight that met our eyes: the couches, chairs, and walls were covered in quilts, each one uniquely exquisite.

"Pick one!" She said.

We excitedly ran about an examined our options. Somehow, miraculously, each grandchild got their first choice. I was soon the proud owner of the "Grandmother's Fan" quilt, which I sleep under to this day. Nanny's gift to the grandchildren provided a treasure for every single grandchild that created a link to her and a reminder of home.