You cannot make the truth appear any more than you can force your intuition to talk by yelling at yourself.
Dearest Doodle Soupsters,
I keep a box of old things underneath my desk.
Sometimes, I forget the box is even there. Then, I remember and its presence feels a bit haunting. Other times, I open the box and I remember who I am.
Why keep the box at all? Why did I throw these things, these things in particular, into a box for safekeeping?
Sometimes, I feel the urge to burn the contents of the box, take each item out one by one and throw them all into a woodland blaze. One time, I ripped up a single pamphlet from the box. I haven’t forgotten it though. Plus, in a lot of ways, each item in the box tells the same story anyway.
You may think I’m writing in metaphor, but I am referring to an actual, physical bin that rests underneath the desk in my studio.
A few minutes ago, I opened the box. It’s strange. For all the almost forgetting it’s there, fantasizing about ridding myself of its contents, and the haunting feeling that at times accompanies keeping it closed, the contents aren’t …
I don’t know. These old journals, pictures, poems, artworks … these old things remind me of what I’ve always known.
Maybe, all of us are born with the truth and bit by bit, many move away from it. Maybe.
The truth isn’t so much an objective explanation of life, humanity, existence, the world …
People say that art is subjective. And when they say that, what they often mean is that the judgment of art (how bad or good) is prone to the whims of emotion, feeling, individual tastes and preferences. And thus, either art cannot be judged or any judgment of art must be flawed in some way.
Yet, objectivity is just as flawed as subjectivity, no? It’s right there in the word. “Object.”
The truth is not an object. The truth is felt in the body. The truth is known deep down in the soul. The truth is real because the truth is lived.
You can measure the length, width, and depth of a painting and we can all agree on the measurement in inches or centimeters. You can list out the materials used to create the painting. You can try to define the content of the painting: portraiture, abstraction, landscape, etc. Yet, we all have different reactions to these questions: What do you see in the painting? What do you feel? What does the painting mean?
This is the truth. The truth is in our senses. The truth is in emotion. The truth is in our bodies. The truth is in our souls.
Art cannot be truly judged precisely because nothing can truly be judged. We create measurements: grades, salaries, performance statistics, height, weight, ratings, etc. Yet, measurements can only grasp the surface of a person or their potential.
What lies underneath?
It’s the question I’ve been asking since I was born into this Earth. What lies underneath? Questions can beget answers, but only with many more questions in tow.
Show me the depths. Bring me deep down into the dirt so that I travel so far underneath that somehow, I reach the pillowy clouds and then, someday, the infinite sky.
The truth is revealed, unveiled: found submerged in the depths, found while mesmerized by endless sky, found sliding in the dirt, found in the in-betweens of breathing, found in the dancing of leaves swept up in a billowy breeze.
The truth shows itself to you. You cannot claw your way to it. You cannot make the truth appear any more than you can force your intuition to talk by yelling at yourself.
What is the meaning of life?
The meaning of life is life.
Take that in for a moment.
What is the verb form of life?
To live.
The command form?
Live.
How do you find the meaning of life?
Live.
I get lost in my thoughts sometimes. I have moments when I wonder if burning the contents of that box will set me free. It won’t. Because it’s just paper with words and images. It’s just stuff. My most painful memories won’t disappear because I destroy the evidence of what was done to me, the ache I suffered, the beauty I still saw in life, the hope I clung onto, the poetry I’ve been writing since I learned how to scribble letters onto paper, the stories I’ve been trying to tell along, the truth I’ve been trying to access and embody since the beginning.
This is when I need to remind myself:
What is the meaning of life?
The meaning of life is life.
Take that in for a moment.
What is the verb form of life?
To live.
The command form?
Live.
How do you find the meaning of life?
Live.
Recently, I wrote a song called “from infinity.” These are the lyrics —
I keep on running
I keep on running
I keep on running in circles
I keep on asking
I keep on asking the same old questions
I keep on
I keep on running in circles
Do I believe in destiny
A gift from infinity
Somewhere, somehow
Or do I just create meaning from the pandemonium
Is there a difference
A difference between
I keep on running
I keep on running
I keep on running in circles
I keep on asking
I keep on asking the same old questions
I keep on
I keep on running in circles
What is intuition anyway
I have a soul, don't I
Where do I come from
What am I, what are we
What am I, what are we
What does it all mean
Oh what does it mean
Is there a difference
A difference between
I’ve been circling this question — how do I trust my embodied truth? How do I trust in any knowledge? How do I know my intuition is real? How do I know anything is real? How do I trust in anything?
I try to find proof. I try to measure. I strain and I strain. And the truth is besides many, many other questions, there is only one answer to this question and it’s the command form of trust.
Trust your embodied truth.
Trust your intuition.
Trust in yourself.
Trust in something, someone.
Sometimes, the answer to “How do I know?” is “What do you know”?
Humans measure, measure, measure and judge, judge, judge because on some level, we just want to understand. Humans cling onto certain stories because the question marks can be harder to live with, harder to trust, harder to move through life with.
I choose harder.
I live with questions. And I love how I live. I find soft places to land and instead of clutching onto them for dear life, I pause every now and then. And when I pause, I remember these soft places and I lay down for a while.
Sometimes, I think I need answers when what I really need is rest. A break from asking. A break from searching. To just be for a while. To sleep for a while. To paint on a piece of paper, paint over and over. No end result. Just the act of painting. Just savoring the feeling of doing something I love.
From infinity,
Nicole Sylvia Javorsky
P.S. Music Corner: Pre-save my upcoming song release "from infinity" on Spotify here. It comes out in one month! February 28th :)