The lemon tree progresses slowly, it is an organism of low demand. Most experts say that if you are watering it twice a week that might be too much. On hot days I mist its leaves, so they don’t get scorched.
So, as I thought about this tree throughout my week, i indulged myself in a moment of self-reflection, why am I concerned with this lemon tree? When we picked it up from the store I had this vague and unreasoned idea that I would have a lemonade stand
While I do find the idea appealing of being self-sufficient for all possible lemon needs, I realize that I don’t use that many lemons now as it is, so I then thought at length about the benefits to me psychologically as I have discussed to some degree in my other updates. Then while considering the tree and realizing that it doesn’t require my constant care, I have been at a bit of a loss for how to find regular psychological nourishment in caring for a tree that requires minimal care.
so, while considering these things, I found myself listening to Malcom Gladwell’s Podcast, Revisionist history. (linked here) Mr. Gladwell has just recently released season 5 of this podcast, and in the first episode I found the concept discussed incredibly engaging. That concept was “the Psychology of a Dragon”
It awoke something in me that I haven't been able to shake. as the podcast starts, it immediately delves deeply into a unique issue to which I was previously unaware, that is that the art museums of the world do not estimate the value of the art which is in their care. I don’t want to spoil to podcast for anyone who may be interested, so suffice it to say here, this podcast got me thinking first about ownership and what value truly means.
The title of the episode comes from a poem by J.R.R. Tolkien called “The Hord” here it is.
THE HOARD
'When the moon was new and the sun young
of silver and gold the gods sung:
in the green grass they silver spilled,
and the white waters they with gold filled.
Ere the pit was dug or Hell yawned,
ere dwarf was bred or dragon spawned,
there were Elves of old, and strong spells
under green hills in hollow dells
they sang as they wrought many fair things,
and the bright crowns of the Elf-kings.
But their doom fell, and their song waned,
by iron hewn and by steel chained.
Greed that sang not, nor with mouth smiled,
in dark holes their wealth piled,
graven silver and carven gold:
over Elvenhome the shadow rolled.
There was an old dwarf in a dark cave,
to silver and gold his fingers clave;
with hammer and tongs and anvil-stone
he worked his hands to the hard bone.
and coins he made, and strings of rings,
and thought to buy the power of kings.
But his eyes grew dim and his ears dull
and the skin yellow on his old skull;
through his bony claw with a pale sheen
the stony jewels slipped unseen.
No feet he heard, though the earth quaked.
when the young dragon his thirst slaked.
and the stream smoked at his dark door.
The flames hissed on the dank floor,
and he died alone in the red fire;
his bones were ashes in the hot mire.
There was an old dragon under grey stone;
his red eyes blinked as he lay alone.
His joy was dead and his youth spent,
he was knobbed and wrinkled, and his limbs bent
in the long years to his gold chained;
in his heart's furnace the fire waned.
To his belly's slime gems stuck thick,
silver and gold he would snuff and lick:
he knew the place of the least ring
beneath the shadow of his black wing.
Of thieves he thought on his hard bed,
and dreamed that on their flesh he fed,
their bones crushed, and their blood drank:
his ears drooped and his breath sank.
Mail-rings rang. He heard them not.
A voice echoed in his deep grot:
a young warrior with a bright sword
called him forth to defend his hoard.
His teeth were knives, and of horn his hide,
but iron tore him, and his flame died.
There was an old king on a high throne:
his white beard lay on knees of bone;
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| Credit to Nimonilshttps://www.deviantart.com/nilmonils/art/Old-King-435421597 |
his mouth savoured neither meat nor drink,
nor his ears song; he could only think
of his huge chest with carven lid
where pale gems and gold lay hid
in secret treasury in the dark ground;
its strong doors were iron-bound.
The swords of his thanes were dull with rust,
his glory fallen, his rule unjust,
his halls hollow, and his bowers cold,
but king he was of elvish gold.
He heard not the horns in the mountain-pass,
he smelt not the blood on the trodden grass,
but his halls were burned, his kingdom lost;
in a cold pit his bones were tossed.
There is an old hoard in a dark rock,
forgotten behind doors none can unlock;
that grim gate no man can pass.
On the mound grows the green grass;
there sheep feed and the larks soar,
and the wind blows from the sea-shore.
The old hoard the Night shall keep,
while earth waits and the Elves sleep.'
This left me thinking, what is the value of an object? i find value in an object when it helps me live, when it sparks a feeling or a memory, or when it helps me live an experience i would otherwise not have lived. When I force myself to consider it, I know that I can’t take my riches with me. That is clearly the moral object of this poem. “it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”Luke 18:25 But then Gladwell discussed Hoarders in his podcast. The discussion was about how Obsessive-Compulsive disorder is a reaction to an intrusive and negative thought. But the Compulsion to collect things is not this. Hoarders so often find themselves feeling like a part of themselves would be lost if the object were lost, and this can be an object as simple as an old and used envelope.
an object only has the value i give it, I purchased my grandparents’ house, my grandparents are not in the house, they are not the house. They are Dead and are of course not literally in this house. Grandpa isn't found in his Korean war enlistment papers, Grandma isn't here left behind scripts and other dramatic writings. Their headstones are left in the cemetery, they aren't the headstones, they aren't there. All these things will pass. Even if the home stays standing for a thousand years, it will change and grow, it may get damaged and repaired. all the family history documents will eventually be lost, and if not lost then unread, and ignored for disinterest. At that point they might as well not even exist. With care the rose bushes could go on growing and blooming for some time, they would eventually get diseased or wild or torn out for a vegetable garden or a patch of grass. Even my lemon tree will die.
But if entropy is a law that effects all things, eventually the energy runs out, the animals die and the plants wither and the stars collapse, why make an effort at all? Bear with me, I am going to a happy place. Some religiously minded people might say the purpose is to make it to heaven and live with god, then why build monuments? Why build houses, again to quote Jesus “the son of man hath not a place to lay his head.” He lived only to share his message and move on, but we all build temples to worship him.
So, everything dies, and if heaven is our goal I briefly wondered why I should even bother with all the extras on earth. The answer might feel obvious to you all, but I realized it was to make a choice. You can strive to make your mark on this world, and maybe you will be the one who finds a way to make that mark last forever, but entropy is universal. Everything in this universe deteriorates into nothing, or rather something else. If you choose this path, you will do so much good. Or possibly bad. You will shape the lives of other creatures on this world.
There is another choice. This Choice doesn’t depend on your belief of the afterlife, or the fore life, this choice is to recognize that life is special. Life is only known to exist on one planet. This one. So, your other choice is to realize that you are a miracle and should be treated as such. At the same time this choice requires you to realize that all life is a miracle and should be treated with the dignity that is required of a miracle. If a moment is forgotten, it is forgotten so that another memory can be more vibrant. I’m not saying you should try to forget, or be forgotten, but live in the present.
In conclusion, I realized that I can frantically grasp for meaning in every event and object in my life. I can pass on heirlooms or monuments. Or I can live my life, love those who have loved me, help those who I can help, build up other people trying to also live their lives. I can plant and care for trees, and help change lightbulbs, and stay up comforting a maltreated soul. I can feed my Cats, and go to work everyday, I can chat with my friend via xbox live. i can stay up and laugh with my wife. then when my final day comes, hopefully not for many years, give me back to the earth. Plant me in the ground and plant a tree on top of me. There is no need to leave a stone on my head, If I mean something to you, then tell my story to teach future generations, but don’t lose sleep about if I’ll be remembered. When I die, it will be time for others to live, as best they can.
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