Dinner 9/18 International Food Co-op in Laughlin Hall Dinner 9/20 Fried Rice (Cao Fan) Taiwanese Fried Chicken (Yan Su Ji) Marinated Pork Ribs (Hong Shao Pai Gu)
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![]() Today I felt as if I came out of my last class just beaming. My freshman seminar, Photography and Literature, was absolutely intriguing. Three hours went by as if they were three minutes. Around seven other people are in this seminar with me, the professor is new, and this is the first time that this class has been listed. Somehow, all of these things combined to create a class that is refreshing; it just feels there are little bits of passion or newness, and maybe just a slight hint of something strikingly fresh—like when you get that after-taste of citrus when drinking freshly squeezed, maybe-a-little-too-sour lemonade. I’m not really sure how to describe it, but I loved it. Before class this week, the professor asked us to read Barthes’ Camera Lucida, which is a collection of musings on photography, mostly regarding theory, purpose, and essence in photography as a medium. When I first read this book, I probably only understood an optimistic half of it—this guy is really dense and philosophical, I guess. After discussion in class, I felt a little clearer. We spoke mostly about Barthes’ claim that photography, as a medium in itself, is actually quite useless. He claims that photography is just about the only “art” form in which the medium is nothing without its referent, or object/person. In painting, drawing, sculpting, etc., every stroke, shape and texture is purposeful and is meaningful. In photography, no such equivalent exists. Even the angle of the photograph and other “artistic” methods are only in relation to the referent. The photograph itself is a flat piece of paper. Then, Barthes argues that, in a way, even the referent itself is not meaningful in itself. The picture is merely a record of “what has been,” merely evidence of something that was there. This is where I became interested: The only thing that gives a photograph value is the value it creates in you. In other words, the photo, as a medium, is always contingent, always depending on the relationship it has with the observer, or spectator. Sure, this may be true for all “art,” but other art seems to have so many extraneous factors, so many complications, so many ways that the medium itself has meaning that change this simple relationship set forward by photography: the referent, the observer, and the medium which relies completely on both parties being present. I now realize that this mirrors so much in our own lives, in our daily living. So many times we are focused on how, or we get caught up with the little things that come along with that how. There are a million distractors—things that are pretty, intricate, and so aesthetically pleasing that somehow the two ends of the relationship become less important: in Barthes’ terms, the spectator and the referent, but in our terms, us and our living, our saints, and our Lord. Since when is our living about anything but this pure relationship? Since when is it about how we “paint” it, how we make it look, how nice and intricate our proposed medium is? We have a beautiful relationship because of the relationship, not because we create a medium that looks to be more beautiful than the two ends for which it was made. Our medium is our spirit, our connection to the only end that matters. And for that matter, our spirit is actually contingent on both sides . . . We have to be willing to release our spirit and the Lord receives our spirit (actually, that is all we can offer). A healthy spirit requires a complete subduing and a complete purity; every other part we think will help this medium, this connection is actually just superfluous and clouds the relationship. Looking even further, we see that not only is the means contingent upon the sources, but that the sources are contingent upon the means as well. In this symbiotic relationship lies the beauty that is our spiritual connection; the Lord gave us a singular way to be one with Him, just as the seemingly ordinary piece of paper we call a photograph is the only way we could ever be touched by the referent in the picture. In this thinking, Barthes has it correct. The most beautiful relationship—what makes photography a beautiful medium and what makes our spirit the most beautiful medium—is that which is pure, singular, and completely dependent on each end and the connection between them. Lord, we have a spirit! How beautiful.
The interesting this is that we are here a day early, so I don't have my ID card or anything to actually get into the dorms. We weren't planning on moving in today (we just wanted to run a few errands), but my roommates are here for various reasons and were able to let me in. Thus, we carried all my stuff in, box by box. I am very grateful I will not have to deal with the crazy move-in fiasco when everyone arrives tomorrow morning. I organized all my stuff, but probably took the most time on the large collage of pictures above my desk. I thought to myself: "This desk is going to be a place of many late nights and frustrated tears. How can I redeem this desk?" I chose the only way I know: the saints! I backed many pictures of all the saints with scrapbook paper and placed them in a collage with my cork and dry-erase board for reminders. Every time I look up, I see Ruth smiling as she casually wields the knife she just used to peel homemade flan out of its container for me to eat, a much littler Sarah holding my hand as she walks across the Sandpiper in her little sweat shirt, Colleen and I laughing as we see the awful picture we just took on her camera . . . These sweet moments remind me of the intimacy and care that only the saints can provide, a relationship that is beyond words. My brothers and sisters are the reason that, today, I can stand for Christ. I am missing the churchlife so much, but I carry it with me each moment. I turn to it moment by moment. The rest of the day was just organizing, eating, and walking around, but all of it was made sweeter because the saints were by my side. -Logan S ![]() They were in the closet downstairs: a pair of oversized hiking boots and a black cap. I purposely sat them out on the table so Logan wouldn’t forget to wear shoes on her hike into the wilderness or a cap to protect her from the hot sun and the nasty ticks. I was nostalgic, remembering the same journey I embarked on two years before. In my heart, I knew the Lord had something in store for her—a new adventure in her journey and a new chapter in her story book. On the first day of my camping trip two years ago, we camped on a green terrace outside of Spelman. I remember gazing up at the moon and the stars, my eyes were growing heavy from the days’ adventures. I was finally here in Princeton, but something inside of me didn’t feel right. The beauty of those stars could not calm the stinging pain, the bitterness, the emptiness, and the anger that had overtaken me. I remember praying to the Lord that night, asking Him to show me the way and to guide me on my walk. I felt stranded and isolated, abandoned and lonely. The stars seemed so far away and the moon was but a passing mirage in my fading vision. In the often overly quoted verses in Psalm 23, David writes about Jehovah as his strength and his peace: “He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside waters of rest. He restores my soul; He guides me on the paths of righteousness / For His name’s sake. Even though I walk / Through the valley of the shadow of death, / I do not fear evil, / For You are with me; / Your rod and Your staff. / They comfort me.” That night, I walked into the death valley. I experienced what David wrote. I was surrounded and enclosed by insurmountable walls—choking in darkness, my eyes blinded by the shadows around me. And that was my first year of Princeton. There were moments, many moments actually, of His shining and His grace. In fact, He was always there; I was just too blind to see Him. Many things were revealed. Many tears were cried. But these fleeting moments were swallowed up by the valley of death, a chasing shadow that I could not escape from. The valley was nothing more than my self . . . my pitiful thoughts, my calculating opinions, and my strong will. In Psalm 84, David writes about passing through the Valley of Baca or the Valley of Tears: “Passing through the valley of Baca, / They make it a spring; / Indeed the early rain covers it with blessings.” I was looking at my wretched self—my pitiful Princeton career. I always felt that one day, these things would pass away. One day, I would just grow up and just be different. One day, I would just walk through this valley and be fine. The Lord revealed to me that my suffering and pain was for the spring He was building inside of me—the living fountain that was waiting to rush out of me and overflow from my vessel. Life is a process and it for sure isn’t an easy one. As I placed the boots and cap on the table, I thought to myself how far I’ve come and how much farther I hope to go. I realized that those valleys, those tears, and those moments of utter darkness were all part of the Lord’s plan to restore my soul and recover my being. The Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. I pray that I will not have to wander aimlessly through my life any longer, that Princeton can be a different Princeton, that my life can be a different life, and that I can be a truly transformed vessel for the Lord. When Logan gazes at the moon and the stars—when she sleeps on that same bed of grass, I am sure she will be reminded of these moments, the too-many-to-count fingerprints in our lives that act as a stamp of the Lord’s ownership over us. I know she will have an altogether different experience—one not clouded by the mind, emotions, and will of a once immature boy. What a joy it is to struggle, to feel pain, to die to our selves, to suffer, to cry. This is true freedom. But I am thankful the journey doesn’t stop in the wilderness. It doesn’t stop in the middle of the valley. There is always that danger, though. But it is a choice. We can choose to continue wandering or we can put an end to our self-striving, put on our caps and hiking boots, and cross over into the Promised Land. -Samuel C I'm leaving. 17 days, and I'll be hundreds of miles from home. Everyone keeps asking when I leave for Princeton, and I have no problem telling them, but each time is like another layer being peeled off my purposefully and self-built summer shell, or like a needle poking through to touch something that would much rather be left alone. I don't know. I must have been living in this shell this summer, hidden in my own facade, believing that this is what life really is. It's been an almost-ideal summer: no homework, no really consuming work to do, Sam home for the summer, time to get everything done without stress, and seemingly little to worry about. Even when bad things would happen, or situations would arise out of my control, somehow I could confine those moments to just moments--the next day was like a new world again, back to my summer paradise. Nothing's really been dealt with, at least at its core. It's not that I don't want that, but somehow there's something in the way. I keep making myself believe that this is life, that I should just enjoy, scoot around the issues. Each time someone asks when I'm leaving, I start to realize that I have to come back to face reality. I'm scared, sure. I'm not under the impression that school will be easy, or that all of a sudden my stress won't overwhelm me, but what really scares me is facing myself again, facing situations without a dream to return to the next day. I'm scared of being in a place where I have no choice but to face my life. Each time someone asks, I just think more about how I'm going to have to face reality. But now I'm beginning to have to ask myself: What even is reality? Honestly, just because life is going to be harder in Princeton, does that mean I'm facing reality? Now I see that even that can be unreal, it can be an even deeper mirage. I can so easily bury myself in schoolwork--I've done it many times before. Now I don't even know. What is reality? Who says my summer hasn't been real? Just because I enjoyed it so much doesn't mean it was unreal. Reality doesn't necessarily equate to suffering. I have this concept that reality means I have to be in pain, that I have to face something I really don't want to. But really, that's completely wrong anyway. It's not that when I face reality I won't have to face these things, but rather that reality is an entirely different concept in itself, not even confining itself to suffering or joy. I'm still not clear, but I know I want a real taste of that--of something that encompasses all of human experience in its most pure and genuine form. The Lord is breaking my concepts. He's not asking me to just suffer or just enjoy . . . He's asking me to be real. He's asking me to stop pretending, to stop trying to find a way to touch reality. Can I just live? Can I just touch Him in these moments and see that reality only comes through His eyes? Our eyes, they're so evil. They show us the world through a film, through a filter, making us think that what we are seeing is real. Nothing we see is real. Nothing we think is real. We even see our own lives through this filter. We'd be better off blind than seeing these lies. I'm slowly realizing that my only way to be real is to disregard my own sight, to do away with something seemingly so useful and necessary, and instead turn to the one Person I know will not not betray me. His eyes do not lie. Lord, please, I beg you to give me Your eyes. I do not trust my own. Let me see the world as it is. Let me see my life. Let me see my failures. Let me suffer. Let me be joyful. But please, let it be real. |
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