From the 1996 edition of The Muse: Excerpts from a journal
Wednesday, January 17, 1996
I suddenly feel uninspired. We had chapel tonight and I really enjoyed myself. I just got that feeling. It’s hard to describe, and unfortunately, it never seems to last long in me. A feeling of wholeness and purpose fills me. I know I can do anything. I want to do so much. I want to change. I want to be outgoing. I want to be me more, but it’s as if that feeling can only live where it was conceived. For as I go on my way and time passes, the feeling also becomes a part of the past. They say an airplane uses a considerable amount of fuel on landings and takeoffs. Cars also get less gas mileage in the city because of constant changes in speed. Is your spiritual life the same way? When we’re all fired up one moment, then decelerate moments later, are we wasting fuel when we accelerate again? Wouldn’t it be more efficient if we always tried to keep from slowing down? We would have less work ahead of us because we maintained our speed. Maintaining a constant spiritual speed can get boring: the scenery goes by at the same rate and it becomes an old, unexciting velocity. As we accelerate, however, a rush occurs. We see things from a new perspective and things continue to be exciting. On this spiritual highway, there is another twist. Everyone is traveling at a different speed. So why slowing down isn’t always efficient, passing others and leaving them behind is just as bad, if not worse. Encouraging is encouraged on this highway. Giving a nudge is always welcome and sharing gas with others somehow fills your own tank, too. I want to love and trust God so much more than I do now. I really want to. But before I can truly love and trust Him, I need to love and trust those around me; everyone around me.
From the musical “Living on the Edge:”
“I had a dream I was speaking with a prophet from the land of the wise, in a crowd of people from the land of troubled hearts. I said, ‘I’ve come here for answers, a solution to my world's demise.’ He said, ‘The journey will be long, but this is where you start: Love One Another.’”
Tuesday, January 23, 1996
Over the course of the day, I think about what will be in these entries. However, as I sit here, ready to begin, I find myself unable to get a good start. This, in a way, relates to what I’ve thought about before. The art of transferring that which exists in the mind to the written word. The mind so free floating. As we’ve discussed in a class once: That which is spiritual (in this case of the mind) exists in a perfect realm. As this transfers into the physical domain, it is perhaps crude, contains blemishes and is less than its perfect counterpart. The art of expressing in words how you feel in your mind is a skill that requires practice and experimentation. I’ve come to realize, however, that big, fancy and impressive words aren’t always needed. Just put down what you feel. By keeping it simple, you won’t get bogged down in your attempt at high intellect. It’ll come in time. Never say that you can’t write. When you don’t feel like it, do it anyway. Sometimes, having nothing to say is the best time to see what you have to say.
Thursday, January 25, 1996
I have a time machine. Actually, I have two of them. The first is my mind. This device has the ability to take me anywhere that I would like to go. Time has no relevance. The places that I can visit don’t even have to exist. The mind is a wonderful way to travel. And I have a second one, too. It’s what you’re reading right now. With this notebook, I have a direct link to the future. I am talking to you. From the future, you know me because I remain in your memories. Of course, the two of us are not in physical contact — we do not see each other. In fact, you do have the advantage over me because of where you are. You’ve already experienced what I’m experiencing. You’ve done what I am doing. You have all of this, along with the many other experiences that are yet to come. That is your advantage. I on the other hand, do not know as much about you. I do know everything that you knew then, but that’s all I will ever know — until I make my way down the road, getting ever closer to being you. It’s enlightening. I’m having a conversation with my future self. You may see it as cheesy and think that it’s not a two way conversation, but the idea of me reading this at a later date does effect what I write. How much do, or can, you remember? Time goes by so slowly, yet so quickly. How long does it feel like? How much have you changed? Why? I really shouldn’t ask these questions. They will eventually be answered and patience is one of the greatest virtues. I cannot expect things to come to me, but instead, I should go out and get them. Patience is not waiting for things to come to you, instead, patience is not getting disturbed when what you want doesn’t happen right away. If everything does have a purpose, why get impatient?
Monday, February 5, 1996
This will be short — I need sleep and I don’t have a few assignments done, either. Everything works out, but procrastination is just asking for trouble.
Wednesday, February 7, 1996
It would be interesting if this journal could be taken with me throughout the day. I would be able to jot down the little things here and there, encompassing virtually all of my experiences and feelings for that day. It could be done, but imagine everyone going about their day, with notebook in hand, jotting down all those little things. Would we ever get anything else done? Would so much time be spent on writing that we would have a hard time including anything else? Instead of bringing our notebooks, look at what really happens. We go through the day and our mind ‘jots down’ every detail and experience. Some of those experiences stick with us, while others drift into the vastness of our memory, losing itself in the massive shuffle of ‘stuff.’ At the end of our day, many of us may recall certain things. Not everything comes to mind, which may limit what we see as ‘our day.’ Some of those memories get lost in that shuffle and we never think of it again. But it still happened. Did it have an effect on us, subconsciously teaching us? Maybe we can’t walk around, keeping that journal of ours neatly tucked under our arm, but we can be aware. Maybe we won’t remember everything, I don’t think we ever could, but we can still know that everything is important. Maybe even ask yourself how you felt, what you think, and why you are the way that you are.
Jason Davis