On Faith

"Faith" is quite an interesting word. Most denotations go something along the line of Webster's online definition, which says, "strong belief or trust in someone or something." Yes, I know that this kind of introduction is quite cliche. But in a way, so is faith as a concept.

Hmm, this is already starting to sound a bit dark, so allow me to put in a classic controversy diffusing disclaimer. I say that faith is an interesting word because its meaning changes significantly with the context it is used in, despite not changing its literal definition. Perhaps the most common use of faith is in its meaning as it relates to religion. When speaking of higher powers, faith is "confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see" (Hebrews 11:1). In this iteration, faith becomes a sort of abstract concept, and thus can be easily critiqued and reflected on. It's a simple kind of faith.

But as with everything else in the world, faith gets a lot more messy when it exits the realm of the abstract and into reality. Lately, I've been pondering a lot on what faith means when it pertains not to God but to ordinary people.

Everyday we place our faith in those around us. We have faith that the driver in the next lane will not suddenly swerve into us. We trust our friends and family to care about us. The loss of faith in these situations can be devastating to one's development and mental state.

Others are always placing faith in us too. In my personal case, I think a lot about how much faith my family, friends, and even large organizations, support my life. Whether it's on a monetary or emotional level, there's a faith that I am worth something and deserve their investment. Of course, this is not to say that family members love each other only because they expect something in return. On the contrary, I believe that while it is rare, unconditional love exists as the most potent spiritual existence mankind can experience. Nevertheless, it seems to me that its presence should inevitably create a sense of humility and indebtedness to its receiver.

So we humans continue placing and receiving faith.

Yet we are fundamentally flawed. We are not faithful, and we are not constant.

But even knowing this, we place faith in each other. Those who can resist this aspect of humanity are admired for their consistency. On one hand, there doesn't seem to be anything inherently wrong with this is there? Aspirations towards consistent excellence... There is certainly no shame in that.

What of those moments of failure though?  How do we react when our faith is misplaced? What does it mean and how should we feel when we fail to deliver to those who have faith in us?

To me these questions are heart wrenching to think about. I almost don't even want to consider them. But to hide them away while acknowledging their inevitability seems to be a grievous wrong as well.

This post doesn't have a set focus or answer to this issue. The question of faith remains one of the most mysterious ones I've thought about. All I can recall at the moment is a verse from 2 Corinthians, 12:9.

"But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me."

It speaks of a kind of faith through weakness, and even a power from weakness... Perhaps it is fitting that faith in its different incarnations have sprung up into this conclusion. Where does this leave faith in its purely human-to-human form? I guess that's a question for another time.

On Snow Part 2

For my inaugural post of 2015, I'd like to explain the title of this post.

"Snow" is a word that has a multitude of meanings for me.

From childhood, I began to associate snow with excitement and beauty. The flurry of flakes is magnificent both in its appearance and in the potential it brings for fun. I would venture to say that such associations are universal among children. Although I rarely build snowmen or toss snowballs at my sister anymore, snow will always call back these memories from childhood.

Snow is curious in that regard. Its presence and connotations change with age, but all of those meanings can simultaneously reappear each time the first snowfall begins to descend.

In my adolescence, I began to see snow as symbolically beautiful. Engaged in romanticism studies as I was, snow began to seem like one of nature's few remaining victories. For a brief moment before the snow trucks come along, the world looks completely natural again. Indeed, this is all courtesy of the descent of nature's purest blanket, although some days it may seem to be more like a vicious white army. Is this push of nature just a fleeting vision of what once was? Or is it an eternal counterattack?

So many stories are told in this blizzard than I could ever know. Both real stories of our joy within the cold, or imaginary, fantastical legends of old. Snow provides perhaps the most flexible backdrop ever told.

These days I see that snow is perhaps not as tranquil as it seems, but rather a mad mistress who can rip life apart at the seam. For those without homes, or whose spirit is low, snow only makes reality all the more cold. And so my old friend, I see you square. You're not quite as innocent as your color seems to bear.

Through this all, the snow continues to fall. The only thing that's really changed is me.

Is it a memory of a forgotten excitement? Perhaps a setting for one's developing mind, in both its imagination and newfound cynicism? Or is it just like any other natural force, so innocent, yet teetering on disaster?

Or perhaps in the end, snow can be anything. And what could be more pure than that?

On Snow Part 1

Much to my disappointment, winter this year has been surprisingly devoid of snow. To me, snow has always been a quintessential part of the New England winter, and its absence during Christmas day especially killed the winter atmosphere. But yesterday morning finally marked the first significant snowfall of the year.

As I sat in front of the window gazing at those floaty little flakes, I suddenly felt compelled to write something about them. So for my first post in 2015 I will write about snow.

Initially, I found this idea a bit ridiculous. Of all the things one could write about to start off a new year, why snow? One Iris has come a long way (well, 21 posts anyway) since I started it back in August. But as I reflect on these first 5 months, I realize I've lost a part of my original purpose for the blog.

One Iris started as a hobby to make sure I wouldn't forget how to express myself amidst the "newness" and business of college life. I wanted to write in as spontaneously a manner as possible, with no fear of judgement and with as much vigor as I could muster.

And yet recently I've felt a bit of pressure to say something significant. To make One Iris not only a "web log" but a place were one can find wisdom, or some other concrete benefit to take away. I've realized that's quite haughty of me.

The start of a new year is a great time to make new resolutions, and also to remind oneself of those made in the past. Perhaps all these reflections are what made the snowfall so inspiring to me yesterday. Snow is so clean, simple, and graceful. It has always been a powerful source of nostalgia to me, bringing me back to a time when I would jump for joy at the mere sight of it, let alone the act of playing in it.

In the spirit of this nostalgia I think it would be fitting to remind myself of how One Iris began...