On W. Somerset Maugham

Lately I haven’t been able to get enough of British author W. Somerset Maugham. A year or so ago I read what is considered to be one of his greatest works, “Of Human Bondage,” and was disappointed. I was also consciously disappointed by other works of his that I picked up and read, “Cakes and Ale,” and “Ah King.” I say “consciously,” because unconsciously, I believe that something in his writing attracted me. If it hadn’t, I don’t believe I would have kept reading any more of his works. I would have dropped “Of Human Bondage” more quickly than I dropped Plutarch’s “Lives” when I found myself nodding off after a couple of pages. But I didn’t… as if against my own will, I kept coming back to Maugham, reading volumes of his short stories and various random works of his that happened to be lying around the house. I told myself it was just because I was bored, and his pieces are lightly entertaining.
         Generally I am grateful when people take it upon themselves to recommend books to me. “You’ll love this,” they say, or “That book was amazing,” or “This one’s a classic, a must-read.” What they really mean is, at that point in time, that book had something to say that spoke directly to their frame of mind or current experience, that the author articulated a message so personally powerful, it captivated their mind and their energy and their concentration, and they came away from the encounter somehow changed.  What they mean is, “that book expressed ideas that coincided directly with my own, or gave voice to ideas I didn’t even know I had.” Alternatively, or additionally, “this book expressed ideas that blindsided or contradicted some of my deep-set convictions, forcing me to re-evaluate and alter them.” It’s hard to know, though, when to give up on a book or an author altogether, or to keep coming back and trying, because you know it just simply isn’t the right time. There is a season to read certain works, and there is a season to refrain from reading them. (For example, when struggling with depression, or an emotionally trying set of circumstances, I make it a personal rule to stay away from Dostoevsky.)  
         A year ago, I wasn’t ready to appreciate W. Somerset Maugham the way I have come to appreciate him now. And a year, or even a month from now, perhaps I will have ceased to appreciate him. Usually if someone whose opinion I value, and whose fundamental convictions resemble mine, keeps telling me I ought to try and read so-and-so, I will keep trying. It was this way with Herman Melville. Over and over I picked up and gave up on Moby Dick. It was never the right moment. His metaphors meant nothing to me, his analogies seemed preachy, I found his descriptions of whaling tedious and his imageries empty and dull. Then suddenly my sophomore year of high school I picked it up again, devoured it, and loved it. I found it exciting, moving, dramatic, relevant. I was glad I had persisted.

And suddenly, at this point in my life, I feel as though I can relate to Maugham's writings. It wasn't this way several years ago. I wish I could remember exactly why I didn’t like Maugham then nearly as much as I seem to now... I think the endings of his works left me feeling dissatisfied. I strongly disliked his conclusions. An author – especially an author of short stories – can do so much with his conclusions... They are the solution to the conflict. They are the grand finale. They are the apex, the answer, the elucidation of everything you've been anticipating… And Maugham’s endings always left me going, “Wait…what??” Here is an example from “The Trembling of a Leaf;”

“He wondered why he had ever loved her so madly. He had laid at her feet all the treasures of his soul, and she had cared nothing for them. Waste, what waste! And now, when he looked at her, he felt only contempt. His patience was at last exhausted. He answered her question.
         “He’s the captain of a schooner. He’s come from Apia.”
         “Yes.”
         “He brought me news from home. My eldest brother is very ill and I must go back.”
         “Will you be gone long?”
         He shrugged his shoulders.”


And?

And nothing. That was it. As in life, no dramatic conclusion, no solution, no resolution. Not a happy ending, although certainly not a tragic one… Just an ordinary one. Maugham’s writings are always that – delightfully ordinary, and incredibly readable. I have struggled through too many philosophical treatises and dense historical expositions not to appreciate readability when I see it. And the more widely I read, the more important a quality I believe readability is for an author to have. It’s all very well to say deep things in an abstruse, subtle manner, to leave readers guessing at the true meaning, and scholars arguing about your purpose in your wake for decades... But if I were an author, I think I’d much rather leave my readers perfectly clear as to my intentions. If my message is important enough to write a novel about, it should be important enough to express lucidly. And Maugham’s writing is nothing if not lucid. Someone once told me how much they hate naïve, blunt writing, writing that attempt clumsily to wrap itself in opaque metaphor, but instead results in a maladroit statement of personal ideology. There is a fine line, certainly, between trying too hard to be subtle and failing… and trying too hard to be subtle and succeeding. Either way, though, I think that you’re simply trying too hard. I think the point is not to try at all. I am no author, and I would not dare to attempt walking the fine line between subtle expression of ideas and blatant proclamation of dogma, but as a reader, it’s nice to enjoy the happy medium Maugham provides. His books have been described as “pleasure reading” – so what? Reading should be pleasurable, shouldn’t it?

And so, a year later, I come back to Maugham. Although there are lists of other books I should be reading, multitudes of authors to try, whole genres I have not explored, horizons to be expanded… I keep coming back to Maugham. Especially since his novels and short stories revolve around subjects that truly interest me at this point in my life – love and friendship and betrayal and fidelity and heartbreak and relationships between people. Ever and always, they are honest, and deal honestly with the corruption and the joy and the hypocrisy and the pleasure of being alive.  And they end at absurdly abrupt junctions, leaving you wondering at the point, the meaning of it all... as do the stories in our own lives.

No better analysis of Maugham’s writing exists than his own. In the Preface to his first novel of complete short stories, East and West, Maugham meditates on his own writing, and on the two greatest influences behind it, Maupassant and Chekov. He both criticizes and praises them, and talks about how he discovered them as a young man and how they’ve impacted his style ever since. When talking about Maupassant, you almost think that Maugham is discussing himself… “It may be that [Maupassant’s novels] have no great spiritual significance. Maupassant did not aim at that. He looked upon himself as a plain man; no good writer was ever less a man of letters. He did not pretend to be a philosopher, and here he was well-advised, for when he indulges in a reflection, he is commonplace. But within his limits he is admirable. He has an astonishing capacity for creating living people. He can afford little space, but in a few pages can set before you half a dozen person so sharply seen and vividly described that you know all about them that you need” (Maugham, East and West, 1921).

Again, when he lectures on Chekov and Maupassant both… (“lectures”? Is that the right word? Maugham never lectures. He muses.) he might be speaking of his own writing: “Chekov is extremely readable. That is a writer’s supreme virtue and one upon which sufficient stress is often not laid. He shared it with Maupassant. Both of them were professional writers who turned out stories at more or less regular intervals to earn their living… it was part of the day’s work. They had to please their writers. They were not always inspired, it was only now and then that they produced a masterpiece, but it is very seldom that they wrote anything that did not hold the reader’s attention to the last line… Sometimes a critic will describe a book of short stories as magazine stories and thus in his own mind damn them. That is foolish. No form of art is produced unless there is a demand for it and if newspapers and magazines did not publish short stories they would not be written…”

Right now, perhaps I’m weary of subtlety. I appreciate the effort it takes, as an author, to say what he wants to say using fables, metaphors, and elusive language. I appreciate the epic proportions of a novel like Brothers Karamazov, and the importance of themes such as Hugo's and Tolstoy's. But coming down to earth from novels like theirs leaves one with a depressing sense of anti-climax, the sneaking suspicion that life, real life, is not like that, at all... Human beings are not like that. The majority of them, unlike Levin and Alyosha and Jean Valjean, do not possess the capacity to rise above their past and become such passionate, self-sacrificing idealists. One in a hundred years, perhaps… and about these men, certainly, such novels deserve to be written. But what about the rest of us? Maybe we don’t deserve to have novels written about us, and our petty struggles and base desires and failings and small victories… and there are people like Somerset Maugham who have written about us just the same.

         “I like a story,” concluded Maugham in his introduction, “that fits...You feel that life does not dovetail into its various parts with such neatness. In life, stories straggle, they begin nowhere and tail off without a point. That is probably what Chekov meant when he said that stories should have neither a beginning nor an end. It is certain that sometimes it gives you a sensation of airlessness when you see persons who behave so exactly according to character, and incidents that fall into places with such perfect convenience. The story-teller of this kind aims not only at giving his own feelings about life, but at a formal decoration. He arranges life to suit his purposes. He follows a design in his mind, leaving out this and changing that; he distorts facts to his advantage, according to his plan; and when he attains his object produces a work of art. It may be that life slips through this fingers; then he has failed; it may be that he seems sometimes so artificial that you cannot believe him, and when you do not believe a story-teller he is done. When he succeeds he has forced you for a time to accept his view of the universe and has given you the pleasure of following out the pattern he has drawn on the surface of chaos. But he seeks to prove nothing. He paints a picture and sets it before you. You can take it or leave it.” 
             

Knowingly or unknowingly, Maugham was describing his own purpose and style as an author. Like his hypothetical writer, Maugham also does not seek to prove anything - he paints a picture - in some cases, a masterpiece - and sets it before you - and you, the reader - today, tomorrow, or years in the future - are perfectly free to either take it or leave it. 

"Gratitude," by Abba.

A post from my father on the meaning behind Thanksgiving... 

"Gratitude:

"An acknowledgement of what the L-rd has meant to us in the past and what He still means to us today, as well as an avowal of what our relationship to Him has been and should be.

"Our Sages comment that when one day in the new future that is to come, all things on earth will be in such an ideal state that there will be no more cause for prayers and offerings; even then, prayers of gratitude and offerings of thanksgiving will never cease. For it would be only under such conditions that these acts would attain their true significance. How great is gratitude, the noblest of all human traits and destined to endure throughout eternity.

"May we be made aware of the vanity of all the years of our life, of the inadequacy of all that which lies beyond us and which we think we can attain as the years go by.

"All he joy and happiness of which any of us is capable of attaining dwells in the certainty that we have lived all our days, hours, and minutes on earth in gratitude and loyalty to G-d, and that we have faithfully discharged our duty throughout time.

"And whenever G-d sees fit to call us away, we will boldly heed the summons, content in the thought that we have realized the goal for which we were created.

"May He, therefore, teach us how to number our days aright and greet each day with a heart full of gratitude for, each day is one more day in His service. What an awesome privilege to remain in His employ, unworthy servants such as we are.


"Happy Thanksgiving."

Runner Ramblings

Every run is a different adventure. When you first lace up your running shoes and head out the door, you never really know how your personal race is going to end up - what you might see, how you might feel, or even how far you will go. At least none of my runs have ever been the same.

During Montana summers (or during any season, really...) my favorite time of the day to run is, strangely, at night. I seem to have the most energy then, the air is cooler, and I get to enjoy the view of the sun setting (and believe me, where I live, this is not a view you want to miss.) Also, when it's really dark, I get the feeling that I'm running faster somehow. I think it has to do with not seeing where I'm going - I feel fitter and lighter - the illusion is created that I'm flying over the ground. I've been told I love running at night because I am young, but I think the above reasons are also contributing factors to my preference for getting out there around sunset.

I spend the first hour or so before my run getting myself mentally psyched to go the distance I plan to do. I am preparing to run my first half-marathon in a few weeks, and have spent the past month not only running longer distances than I am used to, but also trying to figure out what my personal preferences are when it comes to going beyond my usual 5 to 6-mile runs. Just as every run is different, so is every runner different. Everyone needs to figure out for themselves what will keep them going when they get tired, just how far they can push their bodies, and what tricks and tips they can use to improve their performance. For me, it's all about "mind games." My running partner (Abba) tells me that tonight we are going to run a 10-mile loop alongside the Gallatin River, and immediately I start prepping the most important part of my body for the challenge: "Tonight," I tell my brain, "you are going to run ten long miles and you're going to do it without stopping. Get ready."

Along with getting psyched to go the distance and running at night, a hugely influential factor in my running performance is my music. This, I am told, is also because I am young... but I think it's mostly just because I like music. It helps me focus on something other than what I am doing, transposes me to that mental zone that is so vital in long-distance running, provides me with a rhythm that makes me want to keep moving. My musical tastes are pretty eclectic, and also change daily. Currently, my running playlist contains a lot of rhythmic Bollywood music, along with some upbeat, mainstream pop, Latino remixes, Klezmer classics, and even a couple of country songs. It's all about finding the tunes that will get your mind off of running and onto the music - whatever weird stuff that takes.

Before I signed up for this race I was told that having a partner was also very important for marathon training. Since then I have realized how true this is. After long days on my feet at work I generally come home longing for nothing more than dinner and bed - getting outside and going for a run sounds like the opposite of fun. But when Abba says let's go, I have no choice but to kvetch a little, put on my running shoes, mentally prepare myself, and get out there alongside him. I've never regretted it, of course. Sometimes you just need a push to get you out the door, and the push is even better if it's from someone you respect, someone who is going to run beside you, challenge you, and keep you going when the going gets tough.

After a little stretching and a short walk to warm up, we take off through my tiny hometown. Houses speed by. The sidewalk feels good under my feet. I start to get into my music, mouthing the lyrics as we make our way down Main Street and up the overpass. I have to admit, I have no idea where we're going - I've never personally run this route before, so all I can do is mentally prepare myself to run for a long time wherever Abba leads me. It's enjoyable running this way sometimes. Other days it's nice to know exactly where you're going, but tonight is one of those nights where it just doesn't really matter.

It doesn't take us long to get out into the Montana countryside. Behind us, the famed sunset of classic Westerns spreading across the entire sky in an array of oranges and pinks. Before us, the outline of the Rocky Mountains tossing blue mountainous shadows and cutting a majestic line across the horizon. On either side of us, rolling green and golden farmland broken up by trees, farmhouses, the Gallatin River, the Crazies, and the Tobacco Root foothills. Mountains on every side make you feel protected and secure, a feeling I always miss when visiting mountain-less states. It's a gorgeous evening all around, one of those summer nights where you feel like the only thing you really want to be doing is running along a country road with the sunset at your back.

Eventually we turn off onto gravel that takes us alongside the river itself. The trees here are much more dense on our left, and houses, fences, and barns grace the fields on our right. Abba points out a couple whitetails feeding along the river who gaze at us placidly as we run by. I'm not sure how long the road lasts so I just keep running, using the rhythms of my breathing and my music and my pounding Asics to move me into that long-distance zone.

Like I said before, this zone is vital when it comes to running distances over three miles. It's where you start to feel like all you've ever done your whole life is run, and that's all you're ever going to do. It's where your brain disengages from your feet and sort of shambles off into a world of its own, allowing the rest of your body to go on its merry, mindless way. It's where you stop thinking about keeping your chest up and shoulders relaxed, and start thinking about your day and your life and your music instead. This zone is what helps the miles roll by.

It's completely dark now - all I can see is the bobbing light of Abba's iPod next to me, the faint outline of trees, houses, and mountains ahead, and the occasional blinding headlights of a car driving by. At about mile seven my first endorphin rush, or whatever it was that made me feel good running that distance, is over, and I start to wonder if this road has an end. Running in the dark, mile after mile, having no idea when the finish line is going to come into sight, can be frustrating when you're getting tired. Actually, anything is frustrating when you're getting tired. When the lag sets in, but you know you need to keep running, the slightest thing can annoy you. For instance, now I start to get irrationally irritated with the passing vehicles whose lights are causing me temporary blindness whenever they rush by. I put my arm up to block them but it doesn't really help and I trip and almost fall into the grass by the roadside a couple of times. Road-running at night has its advantages, but it also has its drawbacks, even in the relatively peaceful Montana countryside.

Finally a couple of twinkling lights horizontally flashing ahead clue me into where we are, and I can make out the highway cutting in front of us about a quarter mile away. I realize that we're going to turn left onto the path beside this highway, leading to a bridge over the Gallatin and to a route that is familiar to me from previous, shorter runs. Except that quarter mile stretches longer... and longer... we go around several bends and the cars on the highway don't seem any nearer. This is the part of the run - and every run has it - where I want desperately to quit. My philosophy as a fitness instructor is that if you don't experience this emotion during your workout, you haven't really worked out. At some point during all the runs I've ever done, I have desired nothing better than to stop and walk the rest of the distance... or even walk just for a few minutes until I get my second wind. But this is the point at which it's most important not to quit, because it's where your body's getting stronger. It's getting prepared - trained - conditioned - to run even faster and harder next time.

I know this, of course. However in the moment it becomes what feels like an epic inner struggle, one where my physicality battles with my mentality, and my psychological zone turns into a heated debate instead, each side stating the strengths of their case. My body wants to be done. It's tired - my lungs feel shallow, my thighs are aching, my calves are cramping up, my toes are blistered, my ribs are full of stitches, my throat is gasping for water. During these moments my mind often retreats to the lines from Kipling's poem If:

"If you can trust your heart and nerve and sinew,
"To serve your turn long after they are gone,
"And so hold on when there is nothing in you,
"Except the Will, which says to them 'Hold on!'"

A little melodramatic, perhaps, for a nightly training run, but usually it serves to remind me that the Will is always stronger than the body, no matter how weak the body thinks it is. Tonight I don't let my body fool me. I know I'm in good shape, my body can hold on a little longer. Just a little longer...

And there's the highway. We take a left, and there's the familiar bridge. I have never been so glad to see it in all my life. Now I know exactly how far I have to go before home is in sight, and the two-and-a-half miles down the path, over the hill, and into town seem short in comparison to the seven or so miles I just did. Or maybe I just experienced a second burst of endorphins. Or both. Who knows. All I know is that I feel better, and Abba starts to step up his pace, forcing me to stretch my legs out, open up my lungs, take in more air, and feel myself start to fly over the ground. Once again we are in town and houses are rushing by. Also, the feeling of victory sets in, making me feel like I can run even faster. Triumph can do a lot for a runner - if you know you've almost completely accomplished your goal, finishing it can feel like a breeze. After all, the worst is over - the longest, hardest miles are behind you.

This is why we turn our run into a sprint once we cross the railroad tracks. We haul it down the past couple of blocks like we're the first two competitors in a race, digging deep within ourselves to go as fast as we can possibly go. Being a short-distance runner I love doing this. Sprinting short distances makes you feel powerful, even if it's just for a matter of meters. You can go all out, give it all you got... and then you're done. Except now I have ten miles behind me, and the sprint feels that much more potent.

Until we stop. Then the tiredness - the real tiredness - sets in, and I'm just glad that it's over. Every runner, every athlete, knows this feeling. You've finished, not just a race or a run or a workout, but a journey, complete with inner struggles and highs and low... and now you're done. Sometimes I feel like I didn't even really do it. Those past ten miles carry a sense of vague unreality, now that they are behind me.

But I don't actually notice these deep emotions when I'm cooling down - generally all I am really thinking is "Water. Water. Water." And then it's off to stretching and resting and psychologically prepping for the next big adventure that is my nightly run.

Studying A Dead Language

When I was a young and immature high school freshman, my classmates and I used to chant to my long-suffering tutor and father;

"Latin's a dead language,
Dead as dead can be,
First it killed the Romans,
And now it's killing me!"

(I believe we thought at the time that we were rather clever.)

But now, four years of Latin study later, I realize that there was actually a bit of truth to our ingenious little rhyme, at least in regards to the first half. (The fact that the complexity of the Latin language contributed to the fall of the Roman Empire is somewhat more disputable.) Latin is a dead language, "as dead as dead can be." Why, then, did I devote so much time to learning a tongue which I will never speak? (Unless I travel to the Vatican City someday to converse with the Pope - an event which I think is pretty unlikely.)

The simple answer is that my father, a former private high-school teacher and a highly educated individual, firmly believed in the rigors of a classical education and put us through unusual, intensive courses such as analytical logic, Latin, Hebrew, rhetoric, classical literature, and geography with all their old-fashioned trimmings. Thus, I had no choice but to memorize lists of grammatical chants and verbal rules in a dead language.

The more complex answer lies in the fact that, in spite of being "forced" to study a language I'll never speak, I actually enjoyed the learning process. Moreover, during the course of studying Latin, I came to more fully understand my father's reasoning behind teaching us this particular language. I also discovered a few reasons of my own for learning Latin.

Abba used to tell us; "Once you learn Latin, you have the perfect tool in your hands to easily learn all of the Romantic languages," (which include French, Spanish and Italian.) His former students often tell him how grateful they were to have learned Latin in high school - Latin made it simple for them to grasp entirely different Romantic languages in college much more quickly than their classmates who lacked Latin backgrounds. My piano teacher, who studied Latin throughout high school, simply tacked on Italian endings to her Latin vocabulary when she visited Italy, and the native Italians understood her just fine. Not to argue that a grasp of the Latin language is sufficient to communicate in other Romantic languages; but a knowledge of Latin certainly makes learning these languages much simpler. Or so I've been told.

I would often came back at my father's argument with the retort, "Well if I'm going to learn Spanish, why don't I just learn Spanish, and not waste my time learning its foundational language?" His excellent reply; after Latin, you can easily pick up any Romantic language. You can become fluent in Spanish as well as French as well as Romanian as well as Italian as well as Portuguese. Your options are numerous - you can quickly become polylingual, instead of settling for bilingual.  Latin must thus be understood, in some ways, as a language-learning tool, not simply as a language in and of itself (though of course it is that as well.)

However, Latin isn't just a tool for learning fancy foreign languages. Its profound influence on the English language must never be underrated. My father estimates that as much as 80% of the English language comes from Latin and Greek roots. Think of that - 80 per cent of an entire tongue! I can think of quite a few English words off the top of my head right now that come from Latin... "Umbrella" - from the Latin word "umbra", meaning "shade." "Sedentary" - from the Latin "sedes", meaning "seat". "Nocturnal" - from the Latin "noctis", meaning "night". "Deity" - from the Latin "Deus", meaning "God." "Language" - from the Latin "lingua", meaning "tongue." ("Think 'linguini'", as our classmate Becca used to remind us helpfully.) There are literally hundreds more. I'm quite proud of the fact that when I hear or read a new English word that I've never come across before, more often than not I can figure out its meaning from my knowledge of Latin. Thanks to my father/tutor, of course, who insisted that he teach us this "dead" language, and who taught it well.

Latin did not only provide me with a broad, comprehensive basis for English vocabulary - it also contributed to my understanding of English grammar as well. Latin mechanics does not work the same way as English. The Latin language is infinitely more complex, yet at the same time more efficient. For example; in English, we can tell if a word is an adjective, adverb, or noun by the word itself (beautiful, swiftly, person.) In Latin however, we figure out how the word is being used in a sentence by its particular ending. Certain words have certain sets of endings. The endings for first-declension nouns are; -a, -ae, -ae, -am, -ah, -ae, -arum, -is, -as, -is. (Yup. Most of the chants are still hard-wired in there...) So, depending on context, a first-declension noun will end in -a if it's being used as a singular noun, -ae if it's being used as a singular direct object, -am if it's being used as a singular possessive noun, etc. There are several sets of declensions, many different ways the endings can be used, and quite a few different names for each of those uses (accusative, genitive, nominative, ablative, dative.) I won't even try to explain what happens when it comes to Latin verbs.

See what I mean? Complex... yet systematic, economical, efficient. Because of this complexity, English grammar in contrast is a piece of cake. Learning how to wrap my mind around the details of Latin grammar gave me a very solid understanding of words in general, and all of the different ways in which they can be used.

It might sound like the dullest class in the world. But sometimes it was actually enjoyable. We had Latin vocabulary contests (played sort of like an ancient Roman "Blurt!"), translated the entire book of James from Latin to English, and read the stories of Troy, Aeneas, Dido, Caesar, Romulus and Remus in their originals. We encouraged each other in Latin - Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim - ("Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you"), complained in Latin - Cogito ergo doleo - ("I think, therefore I am depressed"), and apologized in Latin - Absit invidia - ("No offense intended"). Stacks and stacks of vocabulary cards, lists and lists of chants to memorize, pages of ancient sentences and stories to translate. It was fun.

I certainly don't regret it. The fact that I'm able to read Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame and O' Henry's Short Stories and understand their numerous Latin references without the help of a Latin-to-English handbook... that alone makes those four years worth it to me. I've come to agree wholeheartedly with my father's decision that a truly classically educated person is at least superficially familiar with the rudiments of the Latin language.

And last, but not least, Latin certainly comes in handy when you wish to show off... As the ancient Romans used to say;
"Quidquid Latina dictum, altum videtur": "Anything said in Latin sounds profound."

A Personal Post For New Year's Eve

I haven’t written anything on this blog for a long time. I have a variety of reasons for my absence, which are mostly covered by the excuse “Life Got In The Way.” College, new blogs, working too many jobs to count, and family obligations, among other things. But now it’s New Year’s eve, I don’t have to work or study tomorrow, and thus have absolutely no excuse for not taking a few moments to write a short(ish) contemplative post.

Except I’m not really sure what to write. 2012 is almost over, and I have no idea how I am supposed to feel about that. When I start musing about this year and everything that it brought forth, I am overwhelmed with nostalgia, gratitude, sadness, regret, ecstatic happiness, fear, hope, and anger, among other emotions. So I’m having a hard time deciding what I think about this past year and how I feel about the coming year.

I can certainly say that last December lots of things were very different… I was in my senior year of high school, hell bent on going to an Ivy League college, experiencing painful jealousy, bitterness, and disillusionment in my personal life, questioning the most important of my foundational values, doing a lot of writing, reading a lot of poetry I didn’t understand, and listening to a lot of Maroon 5. They were interesting times, albeit the darkest times of my life thus far. But I think I learned a lot about life last December, nonetheless…

Personally, 2012 was a year of new beginnings. Starting college was a big one. I graduated high school in May, and I think since then I’ve been learning to cease worrying (somewhat) about people’s opinions and instead learn to love the path I’ve chosen for myself. (Not an easy lesson.) I learned to only worry about the opinions of the people I’ve come to respect and love – people who have earned my trust – instead of giving credence to every opinion with which I come into contact.

And that’s another thing. (Pardon my whimsical rambling here… I’m just writing down these thoughts as they come into my head.) I’ve learned not to give away trust, but to instead allow others to earn it. This doesn’t mean I’ve become untrusting. I’m merely learning that, especially in this culture and country, people have no idea what it means to stick with commitments. I’ve learned the hard way that when the going gets tough, the solution for most people is to leave. I’m not bitter about that – (well, at least I try not to be.) Rather, the realization has embedded within me the firm belief that trust should be earned, not given away.

In 2012, I lost a great deal and learned a ton. I fell in love with life, and made a (probably momentous) decision to take that life in both of my hands and stop quantifying/qualifying it by numbers. My GPA, exact hours of study, daily compliments, minutes of practice, followers on my blogs, professional or educational accomplishments, pats on my back, places I’ve been, things I’ve done… I’m not so sure the numbers of those things matter so much anymore. They’re still relatively important, but 2012 taught me not to let them define my success.

I guess I better wrap this up, because 2013 is coming on, bringing with it all the new battles I’ll be fighting, all the new hills I’ll be climbing, all the tests I’ll fail and pass, all the lessons I’ll learn. I’m afraid, but I’m also excited. So much lies before me, and I can’t wait to see what it is.

L’Shana Tova!