No?
Moving, on then.
I got a phone call from my mother the other day. While it's slightly concerning to start off a conversation with "they're all lies!" what's more worrisome still is managing to end every single conversation with even more book recommendations.
So if you don't see me out in public for the next three months, you'll know why.
Anyway. My mother is far from cynical, but she did have to agree with a certain author's argument that metaphors are, indeed lies. You're equating one thing with another. Similes have found the loopholes. They get off the "un-original" hook for dressing up as chickens and calling themselves actors. Metaphors are more like confused teenagers swiping on some eyeliner and calling themselves goth.
But sometimes, we can't help but romanticize the idea of living a giant metaphor. I mean, even obnoxious welcome mats that say "peace," "love," and "beware of dog," can be metaphors that indicate a spiritual family, a close family, or a family who either has terrible choice in canines or a questionable sense of humor. In John Green's The Fault in Our Stars, Augustus Waters often holds a cigarette between his teeth, but never lights it. He's got a killing machine right in between his lips, but he never allows it to do the killing.
Either that, or he left his lighter back at home. Aha, John Green, you said authorial intent didn't matter.
So being a sucker for romantic literary-ness, I thought about how much of my life is purely a metaphor. During the school year, between bouts of Frankenstein and vampire movies, I didn't have much time for such silliness. Things had to get done, and while I'm a fan of exaggeration, I'm not about to dance around campus and claim "ooh, I am productivity."
No, quite often I do things because they produce an end result. Like, I don't think about the emotional turmoil that I'm cleansing when I shower (much). It's more like "hey, there's some dirt on my skin; I should probably get some soap on that before people wonder if I took the hippie thing too far."
But. Then I went to Boulder, CO. And you know what happens in Boulder.
Metaphors. Tons of them. It's not like those wooden statues of Ganesha or Saraswati are sacred in themselves. It's the representation of the divine within that makes these so powerful.
And so, the story of the Mala necklace begins.
That "broom" is a guru bead, which is supposed to sweep away the dust in your heart. I'm getting better at this, guys. It has 108 beads (actually, mine has 106, but let's not be bitter here) that represent a full cycle of mantra chanting (so you would say "om nama shivaya 108 times," or do 108 sun salutations, then melt in a puddle of your own sweat). The guru bead is supposed to stay close to your heart, and you don't count that bead while going through your mantra repetition. This is supposed to represent the idea that the Guru is always close to your heart, but is also far away from our reach.
As I've grown accustomed to this metaphorical jewelry, I've thought less about this persistent guru that's swaying around my heart. Until I start making some questionable life choices. As soon as I start watching a F.R.I.E.N.D.S. marathon at 2A.M., I'm all too aware that this guru bead is hemming and hawing at me like no one has hemmed nor hawed before.
It's also forcing me to wear shirts that go up to my neck.
This particular spiritual reminder isn't necessarily rewarding me for the good things I do--I'd love to see a piece of jewelry jump up and down in glee ever time I finish a book--but it makes me painfully aware of patterns I'm slipping back into or meditations that I forget to wake up for. It's like I'm disappointing a necklace. Is that weird? Like, would I feel judged by a diamond necklace from Tiffany's? If anything, that metaphor would say "you're a hundred thousand dollars in debt because of me....mwahahah!"
Do you guys do/wear anything for its metaphorical purpose? Let me know in the comments!
Next time, I'll just stick to my hamburger earrings.
Namaste.
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