Art's End Is Not Despair
[I] was recently reading through one of my favorite publications, The Sun
, and found this quote--it resonated with me and I think it expresses some of our vision for Ruminate
The most beautiful paintings and sculptures, the greatest poetry, have not always been born from torment or bitterness. Often they have sprung from contemplation, from joy, from an instinct or wonder toward all things. To create from joy, to create from wonder, demands a continual discipline, a great compassion...With time and sincerity you will discover a way to work and write that does not harm you spiritually, that does not tempt you to vanity, that is the deepest expression of your spirituality. You will find a voice that is not your voice only, but the voice of Reality itself...If you can be empty enough, that voice can speak through you. If you can be humble enough that voice can inhabit you and use you. - Thuskey Rinpoche
I'm not saying that beautiful work can't come from hard things, but I like this idea that art's end is not despair, but something hopeful. What do you all think?
Amy Lowe has served as senior editor and co-founder for Ruminate Magazine since 2006. Many of the fiction and nonfiction pieces she has worked with have gone on to receive Pushcart Prizes and notable mentions in the Best American Short Story anthology and Best American Essay anthology. She has taught English literature and composition for ten years at the secondary and college level. And she sees it as a great honor when authors, both new and newly read as well as seasoned and recognized, entrust her with their writing. She finds great joy in connecting audiences with beautiful and important pieces and believes in the power of a good story to both illuminate and transform. And mostly she loves how a story allows you to see the world from another person’s perspective.
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Also in Ruminate Blog
I love that idea, that we are pilgrims on a journey through time. I love that we humans try so hard to find our places on that long road. And I love that you and I are ineffable, numinous pieces of some great mystery we will never fully understand.
I wake with a kind of jolt in my stomach: I know where I am, but I do not know when I am. When in time am I? Are my children both sleeping in the other room? Will I hear their small feet pattering on the floor as they come in to wake me? Will they tumble into bed with Eric and me?
As a witness of thought, it struck me deeply that I must be something much more than what had been running through my mind. I was so identified with thinking that I truly mistook thought for who I was.