Heer Cheema

There are shadows under her eyes
They have been there a while,
I seem to notice them more and more—growing numb where I lie. 
It is a thing we have in common, you see?
This that I forget,
This that must not be.

Bald patches on her head— 
Set her in reverse 
Suspend her between the banks of the Chenab and Lethe
Turning her n o m a d, 
Where she is left surrounded by recoiling vines and fading bamboo trees.

The drums beat and sometimes she is and other times she is not.

Yes, cut down the branches before I have started to climb!
Oh, I am stranded between familiar fingers and vacant eyes. 
I find myself planting my feet on hardened cement, 
Long past my time to leave a mark.
I stomp down! . . . Only to raise dust into dust into more dust.

There are two in this dance, one I know and the other I do not.

She hugs weakly; uncertainty and resilience mingle in the fissures of her mouth.
Lines mark her face,
A furrow,
A smile— 
Defiant gestures forming gardens of their own even as this one withers.  
For my Nani has always been a force of nature
And though I do not know all the women that dance before the fire—
Limbs heavy with life, unraveling time as they go round and round together—
They are all her

And I will know them when gardens are arid wastelands
I will know them like the soil beneath my feet, ever present 
Ever present.

Poetry

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Heer Cheema explores the complexity of identity, diaspora, family, and history.

Complex Roots

Zainab Umar

However, despite scouring local bookstores, the book I had originally chosen to review was nowhere to be found.

I inspected the prosaic, unexciting cover of Walden with fastidious distaste. Really? A classic? Don’t get me wrong, I love my Jane Austens and Rudyard Kiplings, but who was this alien author with the ridiculously long name and beard?

So you can see, Henry David Thoreau's Walden and I weren't immediately the best of friends. The fact that the first chapter was called “Economy” did nothing to endear it to me. Nevertheless, I began reading. Inexplicably, a few pages later I was chuckling appreciatively.

It seemed that this long-named writer had a fierce, sarcastic humor which made his autobiographical discourse amusing instead of tedious. I read on in fascination to find out more about this strange man, who abandoned city life for two years, two months, and two days to live in a house he made himself in the woods on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts. His journey of independence began coincidentally on July 4, 1845, the anniversary of his nation’s independence.

Thoreau’s spiritual quest to reflect on simple living in natural surroundings landed him in this solitary spot in nature. What made his change of residence so meaningful and introspective? Usually, those on a quest seek to obtain an impossibly hidden “treasure” or to conquer the unconquerable. Thoreau's journey, however, focuses on exploring the human spirit and its flaws, limitations, and needs. The core of Thoreau's hypothesis is simplicity over complexity. Ever logical, he cites the reasons for this “experiment in living”: “to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

"Food, shelter, clothing and fuel," says Thoreau with confidence, are all that are needed to sustain a human. I found his argument on simplicity very interesting and compelling. He believes that, ironically, the luxuries which we strive to obtain actually detract from our happiness and contentment, and make our lifestyles far from luxurious. In essence, the author finds that the distractions of everyday life stifle our true selves and our true identities, and in his experiment he strips away these distractions to prove his hypothesis.

This idea was very thought-provoking for me, perhaps because it rang with truth. I began to wonder: could it be true that our notion of obtaining happiness through more luxuries is really just a myth? Maybe Thoreau is right, and we spend our entire lives searching for something that is already within us—our true selves and our intrinsic thoughts and instincts.

Walden is divided into 18 chapters, each exploring a different theme of transcendentalism, of which Thoreau is a messiah of sorts. Don't be boggled by this intimidating five-syllable word, because I definitely was at first, too. Ignoring Thoreau's disapproving grimace at my use of technology, I asked Guru Google, and learned that transcendentalism promotes self-reliance and freedom from societal bonds and restrictions, which impair spiritual thinking. The definition of transcendentalism also helped me to realize why Walden is really considered a classic. According to another Google search, a classic is a work of literature that defines a literary period, and Walden definitely played a part in defining this 19th-century literary and spiritual movement, which was essentially a retaliation against the intellectual and spiritual state at the time.

Interspersed in Thoreau’s memoir is his acerbic critique of society and the people who compose it. The entire experiment, in fact, seems to be done in defiance of society, to prove that it is something a person could live without.

Thoreau focuses in particular on conformity and society, condemning them to be evils which force individuals into "slave"-like living. He sees conformity and society to be a mindless squander of human spirit. Sometimes his non-conformist stance boils down to sheer civil disobedience, such as when Thoreau refuses to pay poll tax to a “state that buys and sells men, women, and children, like cattle at the door of its senate-house.” Thoreau is not ashamed of his ensuing incarceration; he is convinced he has taken a correct step against an exploitative system.

Behind these political overtones, the premise of simplicity remains, as Thoreau explores the "identity" forged by individualism instead of cultural or societal trends. Thoreau believes that allegiance to these institutions is tantamount to blindness, as they prevent people from finding their true callings. Knowledge of one’s calling, he believes, can only be achieved through meditation, reflection, simple labor, and observance of the the School of Nature.

Speaking of nature (since Thoreau seems to do a lot of it), Walden is almost as scientific as it is philosophical. Thoreau's naturalist writing, dense with metaphors and observations about the natural world, spares no detail. He breathes life into simple, ordinary parts of nature. Brawling ants, vivacious ponds—it seems as if the author wants to show us that all of our answers are in nature, if we would only care to look. Thoreau does not hesitate to educate his readers about the genus and species of various plants and animals, almost as if Homer and Animal Planet decided to collaborate.

It is these eccentric descriptions which made Walden such a strange classic for me, a kind I had not read before. Thoreau may be a champion for simplicity, but his writing style is definitely not. In a way, I think the precise details and fast-paced thoughts are deliberate—they keep the reader alert.

In his impressive journalistic style, Thoreau piles his descriptions extensively over each other, painting precisely the picture he wants his readers to see. It becomes slightly difficult, however, to keep up with his thoughts. In a single paragraph-long sentence, he can go from describing the weather to musing on the sanctity of the soul.

Reading Walden is like going into a trance. Thoreau is ever the unassailable narrator. He builds up so strong a case for his beliefs that you find yourself nodding in agreement. This is a man who can justify that philanthropy “does not agree with my constitution.” Not only did I not blame him for it, I actually enjoyed his attack on people who thought they were “good.”

What is it about this book, or rather this author, which lulls the reader into an almost hypnotism, where they cannot help but fervently agree with the writer’s controversial opinions? I believe it is Thoreau’s exceptional and undeniably alluring literary voice. From the very outset of the story, he whisks the reader into his world, a world which seems better than the one we live in. He also likes to confuse his readers, often using double entendres, satire, and conundrums to tease us. This made my reading experience slightly complicated, as at times it was hard to discern whether Thoreau was joking or not. However, I think the roundabout style is part of the writer’s charm, as if his book is a maze in which the reader gets lost.

At the very core of Walden is Thoreau’s powerful logic, a logic unlike the one we employ in our daily lives. It is a logic, I now understand, aimed at converting people to his Cause: simplicity and self-reliance. Personally, I find this cause very tempting. Thoreau's arguments are logical, his findings are convincing, and his overall message seems to be a positive one.

However, in the modern world, where technology and connectivity are centripetal forces in our life, I think Thoreau's teachings of universal simplicity may be very difficult to implement. Thoreau even predicted this societal trend. In one chapter, when he contemplates the nearby railway and its noises, he wonders whether robots will start to rule over mankind—remarkable foresight for a 19th-century writer, as concerns about artificial intelligence and its sliding growth have recently plagued debate rooms worldwide.

Sure, at face value Thoreau's idealism and logic seem rational and truly possible. But are they, really? Of course, leaving all of the crime and corruption, headaches and conflict of modern life sounds heavenly. However, I don't think I'm ready to give up the other stuff, which I actually really love, like Netflix and Snapchat. Perhaps this book was meant for a previous generation, one not so deeply entrenched into gadgetry and connectedness. Perhaps Thoreau missed the train.

As you may have guessed, Walden is not an easy book to read. Despite its uniqueness, it is still a classic written in 19th-century English, with ambitious vocabulary. The sentences are almost always long and multi-layered, as Thoreau has a tendency to shift from realism to philosophy so swiftly it is hard to discern where one ends and the other begins. He does not hesitate to use complex literary techniques and allegorical references. His descriptions, though enjoyable, are detailed and analytical. Therefore, this book is more suitable for slightly older readers, ages 15 and above. However, I think personal taste plays a greater role than age, so if you're thirteen and adore classics and philosophy, look no further!

I would give Walden four out of five stars. It is a truly fascinating book, and it gave me the chance to think about ideas I had previously never considered. Yes, Walden will challenge you. It will threaten to overturn all your notions about society and life, and make you laugh amusedly as you struggle. In the age of consumerism, technology, and economic divides, Walden is more pertinent than ever. “Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!” Thoreau prescribes, chanting a mantra which at this point in the book you are willing to accept and adopt, and take your family and friends along for good measure. However, Walden is definitely not my definition of light reading. It takes a great deal of patience to keep up with and absorb Thoreau's ideas, to make sense of his allegories and metaphors, and to bear all his insults of modern life.

Hypnotism aside, some of Thoreau's arguments raise some important questions which you will ponder on long after the book has been read. What does it feel like to truly live? Is our complex lifestyle, our quest for luxury and plenty, making us forget the true nature of life? Is simple living the solution to inequality and economic disparity?

And most importantly, can Thoreau’s model of simple and individualistic living give us the happiness that so many of us lack?

When considering these questions, ask yourself this: do I have a specific goal in life? If you're thinking "money" or "comfort" or "I want to marry Ryan Reynolds/Emma Watson," it may seem like your life is on the right track. But think about what it all really comes to, and you'll begin to think of "happiness" or "contentment" or "peace." The pursuit of happiness is a subject hundreds of poets, philosophers and writers have pondered over. Thoreau is only one of them. And by Thoreau's model, the reason not many of us achieve these landmarks is that our approach is wrong.

If these questions are completely alien to you, as they were to me, I would strongly recommend reading Walden (and The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, while you're at it). For now, all I can safely tell you is that Walden was far more complex than its simple, boring cover.

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Zainab Umar shares her thoughts on Walden, Henry David Thoreau's classic work on simplicity, nature, individualism, and transcendentalism. 

Walden, or the Hypnotic Book

Caroline Hochman

Nowadays we think of life as an ongoing checklist, a never-ending reminders app.

We stomp through this “Age of Complexity” (a term used by psychologists for the contemporary era) ignoring many of the simple joys of life. With the high intensity of modern times, why do we feel the need to make our already complex world more complex? Why is it so difficult for us to enjoy the simple joys of life? I believe it is because we sabotage our own happiness by overlooking natural simplicity and beauty.

Simplicity can be imagined in two separate categories: simplicity of nature and simplicity of the soul and mind. Simplicity of the soul is a mental balance, an inner peace that we often lack because of the structure we impose on our lives. Those who lead their lives simply and holistically, whose primary goal is obtaining peacefulness or spiritual awakening, may avoid the emotional maelstrom the rest of us are trapped inside.

Modern life is very intricate, with different moods, ideas, and feelings crammed into one. We have to organize and compartmentalize everything; we have different ways of interacting at work or school, at home, and over social media, and controlling these different aspects of our lives is difficult and confusing. Often we have access to technology 24/7, distracting us from our real experiences with virtual ones and invading every aspect of our lives.

Ezra Bayda, Zen practitioner and author of the book At Home in the Muddy Water, speaks of spirituality as a solution to this emotional turmoil. He argues that through meditation he can contemplate and attempt to understand this complexity, describing it as a way to gradually embrace the “muddy waters” of life.

Unfortunately, it is hard for many (if not most) people to obtain the peace of mind Bayda speaks of, because of the human tendency to constantly self-sabotage and cloud our lives with complexity and shallow goals. For example, I sabotage my own happiness by setting myself up with superficial objectives that do not actually carry meaning, thinking that once I achieve them I will be happy. I let myself believe in these grass-is-always-greener fantasies, and then when I discover my now-answered goals are not, in fact, fulfilling, I get discouraged. Why would I give myself this unnecessary pain?

The simplicity of nature is another beautiful truth that, now more than ever, the human race is destroying. Some of the most meaningful experiences we can have occur when we are surrounded by nature, yet global warming and urbanization make enjoying the calm, peaceful beauty of nature increasingly difficult.

Several of my favorite memories come from time spent at my grandmother’s small cabin in Canada. The cabin is on a small island where there are plain meals, almost no material things, and no technology. We eat by light from a gas lamp and go to the bathroom in an outhouse. I fondly remember collecting wood for fires with my sister, going on late night walks, and swimming in the really really cold lake (or throwing my sister in the lake—it was revenge). I vividly recall the beauty in the stillness of the air filled only with bird calls, the serenity I felt from looking across the glassy, clear water. These experiences are unrivaled in my normal life.

In the mid-1800s, American naturalist and transcendentalist writer Henry David Thoreau wrote of the destruction of the beauty of nature caused by industrialization. He believed industry and the complications of (what he considered to be) modern life were unnecessary and unproductive. In his book Walden, Thoreau describes the raw beauty of Walden Pond, famously saying, “Our life is frittered away by detail . . .  simplify, simplify.”

Occasionally, I recall Canada’s beauty while watching a leaf dance to the ground in fall or while sitting on a park bench in spring, and I am reminded of the simplicity Thoreau advocates. Perhaps we should take his advice. Perhaps simplicity, not ignorance, is bliss, and too many of us make the mistake of overcomplicating our lives. Perhaps we truly are our own worst enemy, and in destroying this simplicity we also detract from our own happiness.

In a KidSpirit Big Question response, teen writer Caroline Hochman discusses how we can appreciate the simple joys of life, nature, and beauty amid the complexity of modern life. 

Why Is It Difficult to Enjoy the Simple Joys of Life?

Abraham Weitzman

Human relationships are based on communication, verbal and nonverbal. Every conversation is filled with tone and timing, facial expressions and body language.

Precise word choice is easily overshadowed by eye contact or lack thereof. The right smile denotes sincerity or sarcasm. What happens when this is missing, or worse, not socially appropriate? What if the person waits so long to respond that the conversation has moved on or ended? It is simple to tell someone that you need more time, but what if they leave before you can tell them? Speaking is the most commonly used method of expression, and when it is not viable interacting with others becomes difficult.

People who cannot speak are labeled  "nonverbal." This might lead you to think that they communicate nonverbally. Ironically, the same disabilities that interfere with speech impact facial expression, body position, and eye contact. The muscular disorders that impair speech by impacting the tiny muscles that control lip and tongue position also make it difficult to form a grin or frown.  A movement disorder can prevent intelligible speech; it can also cause flailing limbs that keep friends at a distance. Nonverbal communication is complicated, even for "nonverbal" people.

The reason I can explain the challenges of being nonverbal is that I find speaking impossible because I cannot coordinate my muscles. I use two different computerized communication systems. The school I attend has many students with communication problems who are also wheelchair users, which both affect our interactions. Some of us speak unclearly, some of us speak with soft voices, and a few, like me, do not speak at all.  Often we are surrounded by adults who, like Heisenberg, alter our conversations just by observing. Sometimes we can escape them, by speeding away in a power chair. We are severely disabled and completely normal.  Our technology is like a universal translator, driven by switches, eye gaze, and jerking screen touches.

Communicating with people by using assistive technology is complicated, but a casual environment offers opportunities.  The constant banter in the lunchroom is a chance for students to speak freely. There is no set topic, but it is a short list—weekend plans, annoying teachers, and unappetizing school lunch all make the top 10. Staying in the loop only requires that you stay on topic. It is never a bad time to critique the meatloaf or plan a trip to the movies. Looking across the lunchroom or down at your plate is expected. Being quiet while you eat is common. A kid with a speech delay could just be chewing with his or her mouth closed. Knowing what is expected allows a person using assistive technology to prepare a conversation starter. It may not be the most meaningful conversation, but I find a simple "Did you see the Mets last night?" can make the difference.

Of course, some conversations have more at stake than ERAs and RBIs. When is the right moment to declare your love? Is it before or after the first kiss? Do you start with an introduction or dive right in? How can you plan for a spontaneous, magical moment? If that already seems complicated, try doing it through a computer with a mechanical voice. Conversations about feelings are usually expressed with gestures and proximity, which is difficult while accessing a computer.

If we can overcome this disadvantage with carefully chosen words, a loving relationship can grow. Sometimes written expression can remove the unspoken component and simplify things by reducing misunderstandings. Writing poetry is good practice for communicating with assistive technology. Both require care in word choice to produce declarations of great meaning with few words. Poems are the perfect way to tell someone you love them. They are written in advance, eliminating the risk of a poorly chosen sentiment. Similarly, assistive technology users can prewrite their messages to reduce the risk of tiring and choosing their words for efficiency and speed over precision and impact (it can be tempting in the moment to use short words in an attempt to keep up).

Writing using assistive technology is usually slower than the pace of conversation. This can result in more than one person communicating simultaneously, which is complicated to follow. Email can simplify this by reducing the cacophony and changing the response time expectation for everyone. By normalizing the delay, the nonverbal person can be included.

Finding ways to normalize assistive tech is easy compared to translating nonverbal cues. The most complicated nonverbal cues are facial expressions. Sometimes a smile is perturbing. It can be a smirk, a vapid open mouth, or a malicious grin. It is most disconcerting when words don't match the face. Happiness felt on the inside, whispered and arrested between ventilator breaths, accompanied by a face without expression, is difficult to understand because it is hard to hear and impossible to see. Laughing communicates happy feelings to your companions without a word. Yet if the time is not right, laughing can be inappropriate or even cruel. Depending on the situation, it can ruin a blossoming friendship if it isn't explained. The potential for hurt feelings and disappointment is always present for someone who can't start or stop looking happy.

Sometimes, I cannot stop laughing. It starts with something funny, but then I can't stop. My friends understand the difference between my real and prolonged laughter, but many casual acquaintances do not. Having assured themselves that they "know" me, people will misinterpret it as a response to something amusing they didn't see or hear. In fact my laughter is not meaningful in any way if it lasts more than a minute or so. Each time someone misconstrues my laughter I feel like my translator is broken. Having trouble understanding my "response" can lead to others taking the conversation in the wrong direction.

Communication is a two way exchange, speaking and listening. While expressing my thoughts can be challenging, receiving others' can have problems as well.  When you have a secret, who do you share it with? The best secret keepers don't tell. Perhaps people who can't talk are the perfect confidants. They are good listeners. They don't interrupt. They don't offer unwanted advice. Very few "speaking" can do all that. Nonverbal people hear it all—confessions and complaints, hopes and heartaches. But not every secret should be shared. In the moment, emotions seem clear and eternal. In a day or two, we are less in love, dejected, bereft, or elated. The intensity fades but few retractions are spoken. "I feel fine" is not a secret, so you don't need your secret keeper to talk to. Nonverbal people hear all of the drama and things better left unsaid, but miss the everyday discussions. Listening to secrets is complicated. Sometimes hearing things you don't want to hear is uncomfortable, like being force fed. Hating something you can't stop makes you feel vulnerable even if you are not in danger yourself.

If being nonverbal makes me feel vulnerable, sitting in a wheelchair I can't control makes it worse. Posture and proximity help define relationships. Being close enough to touch someone implies intimacy, power or both. Actually touching may be welcome or offensive. Delineating one's personal space requires tiny adjustments—closer, closer, stop—like backing a van with a trailer into a car's parking space.  A person must use real-time sensing and processing of their location as well as the other person's comfort level. There needs to be continued sensing and adjusting as the conversation develops. This is effortless for people with good social skills and control over their body. For a person with my disability, these adjustments are impossible to coordinate, which interferes with the conversation instead of supporting it.

Being in a wheelchair also makes eye contact complicated as "walkers" change their elevation throughout the day.  Even when you can't tell someone to be quiet, you can give them a look that says it all—but they have to see you. Often people with height challenges are overlooked, literally. The nonverbal are even less likely to catch someone's eye from a seated position.

Having difficulties like these would lead many people to give up, retreating to isolation amongst a crowd. It is simpler and less of an emotional risk. However, the risk is completely worth it; the reward is indescribably valuable.

If verbal friends can understand what makes it complicated for a nonverbal person to communicate, they can find ways to make it simpler. They can wait for an answer, even if it takes a while. They can focus on the words instead of the way someone looks and sounds. They can keep quiet company, allowing silence without judgement. Those who are nonverbal can make the effort to communicate even when it is difficult. They can choose their words with care to be sure their feelings are clearly expressed, no matter what their body language says. They can be good listeners. Friendship emphasizes what is important and meaningful, over what is common and ubiquitous. Speaking fewer quality sentences is more helpful in expressing feeling than an hour of blabber. In all these ways, anyone can build a relationship.

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Abraham Weitzman describes the difficulties of building relationships as a non-verbal wheelchair user, as well as how these challenges can be overcome.

Simply Speaking

Samarth Jajoo

A difficulty, problem, issue, obstacle, hurdle, or stumbling block: that's how we often define complexity.

I find people and situations complex when they are unapproachable or incomprehensible. Simplicity, on the other hand, is something that presents no difficulty.

Here's the thing—you rarely experience complete clarity in any situation. How many times have you managed to do something without running into problems along the way? Complications are . . . inevitable. The trick, however, lies in simplifying complexity—boiling down problems to the lowest level and addressing them from the root, before things become any more entangled.

I learned this lesson firsthand about a year ago.  I was twelve, and had just arrived at school. Our school had recently set up a “Makerspace,” a lab with some extremely cool but (for me) unapproachable machines.

For example, there was an open circuit 3D printer. We could see the hardware inside—the processors, shields, cooling fans—all of it. It was incredibly intimidating. I had heard that the printer was used in industries for something called “prototyping,”  but I didn't have a clue what that word meant. It was all gibberish to me.

However, after 30 minutes of talking to Krishna, the person who installed the Makerspace, I was hooked on the idea of not just the machines, but the very culture behind making things, however vague that sounds. Krishna told me what the 3D printer does; it just draws in 3D. He talked about the amazing possibilities of this seemingly complicated idea. Then, he showed me the tens of thousands of lines of code the printer uses to function. For a moment, I gave up on the idea of making. I said to myself, "I don't want to do this, I'm puzzled just looking at it!"

But my teachers told me that operating the printer was no big deal—that the code was just like English, just some instructions to teach the machine what to do. That sounded somewhat less complicated, enough for me to give it a try!

I spent the day understanding how the 3D printer worked and how people were using it. In just 10 minutes of reading about the machine online, I was hooked on the idea, and started understanding why it was useful. I saw the possibilities, the inventions, and the importance of "prototyping," a word that was no longer gibberish to me! I saw the amazing things people were designing, and I was inspired to the core.

In just a day, the 3D printer no longer seemed  intimidating, but instead became a tool that could support me in building things. After a day or two, I designed my first creation: a simple frame that says "DFTBA" (Don't Forget To Be Awesome). Now that I knew about making, I would definitely not forget to be awesome, but reminders don't hurt.

I spent hours at home exploring not only the 3D printer, but the whole "Maker Culture," which is all about learning to solve problems and simplify complexity in order to develop a sophisticated product—something with a purpose. I started helping my classmates explore the Makerspace. I wanted them to be excited about it, and for them to see sophistication in the machines.  I was so passionate about the idea that I spent half of my summer break at school learning more about it.

I have come across multiple complexities, but simplifying them has brought me experience and clear vision. Making has been a great help to me and taught me better problem solving. I’m not afraid to approach something that seems complicated now, be it a machine or a math concept, and am much more confident, because I know I’ll be able to solve and simplify any problem.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Samarth Jajoo shares how he took on complicated challenges to create simple things at his school's Makerspace.

Simplifying Complexity

Yani Li

Let our worries wash away
the nuances of complexity
Like stars fallen from heaven’s seam,
swept into the darkness of a sorcerer’s dream

Look past the blurry film placed in front of our eyes
Before we are strangled by webs of complexity,
drowned by waves of doubt, questioning, and futile dreams
Trapped within this dizzying infinity

Instead—there is the stark allure of simplicity,
containing a beauty far greater than any prose
Peel off the layers of convoluted words and monotonous conversations
To reveal the rich marrow of poetry

Halt time, and notice the magic in simple things:
the soft blur of street lights, swaying of trees, and buzz of fireflies
Wallow in past memories, sink in present beauty
With simplicity—comes tranquility, clarity, brevity

Seek not the false grandiose of complexity, because simplicity
is already a masterpiece

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Yani Li explores the beauty of simplicity within our complex world.

Simplicity Is Already a Masterpiece

Gracie Griffin

Prayer is the limbo between the serenity of accepting the world’s chaos around you and the challenge of pursuing stillness in your heart. I am a Quaker and so I pray.

But I am a person, too, and that in itself leads to prayer. We all pray, whether religiously based or not. Our wishes, our reflections, our thoughts that are larger than ourselves, our issues of morality—all these and more are forms of prayer. And yet wars have been fought, countries have been formed, relationships have been built and broken, and whole eras of history have been dedicated to this one thing.

Prayer, the mission for a personal sense of rejuvenation and reflection, is both the most complex and the most simple action for humans. We are drawn to it, it becomes the home of our soul, no matter what spiritual practice we subscribe to. And yet I believe that it will never be solidified or defined, because I see prayer as a living, breathing entity of its own creation, which makes it so appealing to us mere mortals with harsh, vivid lives who need the hope of some higher power or concept to survive. It is truly liberating to be able to send my emotions out and believe that they are ending up somewhere instead of just being lost in the ether.  So  I see no sense in continuing to argue over the right way to pray. Maybe it's my background as a Quaker with a mission for peace that makes me want to end this age-old conflict, but I truly believe that we all have an individualized guidebook to God within ourselves.

A mere conversation is not enough to capture the complexity of prayer. And yet some are forever trying. People talk as if it were some sort of competition, with  “good effort!” ribbons for most, except those select few on the podium. They talk as if prayer were theirs, as if they have accomplished the impossible and are somehow better for it. They speak as if it is a secret society in which those selected are graced with some higher power removing the strain of everyday life from their shoulders.

But by elevating prayer to something that must be practiced, with constant drive and force of will, people lose sight of the simple prayer of everyday life. By making it a destination, people miss the prayer of the journey. I don't believe in prayer as a competition. I think prayer is the commonality of our internal struggles and our conversations with God, and this is complex, because there are no words to capture the way He speaks back. There is no right or wrong way to pray, and people who say there is are losing sight of the overwhelming purpose of the struggle to find inner peace.

Praying is hard. It must come from within, from a part of yourself that is twisted and complicated and beautifully, organically you. I find prayer in the way that everything is amplified. I find prayer in the crisp number of window panes that I count in Quaker meeting for worship. I find prayer in the anxious shuffling of Skechers sneakers against wooden floors before the teacher comes in to lead a parade of jostling bodies, too full of the vibrancy of life to keep silent, out into the classroom. And that vibrancy, that buzzing and shuffling, seems more full of prayer to me than the perfect, clean silence left behind.

I find prayer in what surrounds me, and I find prayer in the fluid motion of thoughts that pass through my head. I find prayer in that moment where I don't need to be doing anything except thinking, and I find prayer in the ease of letting my body fold into the familiar, uncomfortable chair, willing my muscles not to twitch the spelling of my discomfort. This is the way I pray. These pure, simple, graceful moments carry my prayers from my heart out into the beyond. For in those moments, I am overcome by the grace of an inhaled breath.

To pray, you must allow yourself to be unsettled and uncomfortable and unfocused and unproductive. In this way, prayer is the most natural and simple act in the universe. To pray, you must lose yourself within the chambers of your heart and feel your surroundings and senses trickle away like sand under your toes, pulled by something much greater than your being. In this way, prayer is the most challenging and complex task of our short time on Earth. I am reminded of this every time that I sit down in an official place of worship and every time that I am faced with a personal daily challenge.

To my mind, there is no sense in discussing the “right” way to pray. There is no sense in broiling conflict over prayer mats versus prayer beads, because the point of prayer is to embrace conflict, both internal and external, and to love it all the same. Simplicity. Complexity. Humanity. They are all intertwined in prayer; without one, the others would simply fall away. So whether I am faced with the perfection of a plain candle flame or the pain of a heart-wrenching moral dilemma, I must stop. Think. Breathe. Live. Pray.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Gracie Griffin explores the beauty and mystery of the most simple and complex act of human life: prayer. 

The "Right" Way to Pray

Lila Hazan

he feels trapped
wading through maple syrup days
one foot after the next
  step after
     step after
         step after
              step
he feels as if he carries a weight
straining his muscles and pushing upon his eyelids
his lungs are being crushed
the cacophony of noise is cluttering his brain
and the sun is too bright
and the grass is too green
and the teachers are too demanding
and the students are too loud
and the boys are too hostile
and the girls are too coquettish
  and
         it
            is 
               just
                   too
                     much
therefore he trudges home 
day in and day out
until he collapses on the bed in a fit of exhaustion
but his eyes will not close
so there he lies 
    in a mess of tangled limbs
                sweat
                      sheets
and he waits
          and waits
               and waits
until he can bear to open his eyes
and the sun is dim
and the teachers are easygoing
and the students are quiet
and the boys are friendly
and the girls are sweet
and he can finally breathe
until his mind is cleared of the noise
until he can stand to walk and he will through the night
out the door
down the stairs
up the hill 
to the park
until he can sit alone under the stars
and simply
  exist

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Lila Hazan explores the complexity, stress, and pressures of a teenager's modern life while seeking space for simplicity.

Under the Stars

Jung Woo Bae

I blow the pitch pipe on the key of A-flat, and, almost instinctively, the four of us huddle closer together, forming an intimate circle.

As the A-flat gradually dissipates after a few seconds of held uniformity, the bass starts humming his first note, the baritone follows with his, and the tenor concludes the neatly stacked chord.

After a swift intake of breath, we begin singing the 1905 classic "Wait ‘Til the Sun Shines Nellie," known for its arrangement in the barbershop style:

“On a Sunday morn–, sat a maid–, forlorn– . . . ”

At all times, we take care not to exert any flaws in pitch, for we know that the slightest taint in intonation could disrupt the flow of unified harmony.

Up until this moment, we have relentlessly pursued the promised yet ever-elusive overtone — a euphonic, ringing phenomenon that is a defining feature of barbershop music. An overtone can only be achieved if all four voices meld flawlessly together, as when the notches on a key link precisely with the pins in a lock.

As we drift through the musical phrases articulately inscribed in our heads, we prepare ourselves for the final segment of the piece, otherwise known as the tag. Ears sharpen, ready to discern the slightest of flaws.

At last, we reach the resolution of the song, and as we sustain the ending chord, we notice an angelic, ringing sound quietly emerging into existence. Invisible to the eye, yet just discernable with the ear, the overtone perches gently at the chord’s apex, like a halo floating on top our heads. Tasting the sweet chime of an overtone for the first time in our lives leaves us elated and ecstatically numb.

It wasn’t until my penultimate year of high school that I discovered barbershop: a four-part harmony a cappella known for its unique, complex chords. Each vocal section is constituted of notoriously difficult and unusual progressions of notes, namely due to the abundance of accidentals (musical signs indicating a temporary digression from the key signature by raising or lowering a given note). Yet, it isn’t just singing the individual parts that is challenging; blending them together is, in fact, the real struggle.

Individually, the sections sound incongruous to one another. At first glance, it’s easy to doubt that all the parts can merge together in the first place. This is understandable, because if complex meets complex, logic convinces us that further complexity should arise. However, barbershop proves the contrary. In barbershop, when all four sections are woven together in proper synchrony, it results in an intricate fabric of harmony that gives the genre its distinctive texture and sound. Sometimes, as exemplified by barbershop, immersing oneself in complexity may be the solution to finding the simplicity one seeks in life.

Searching for simplification inside a ball of chaos can be mentally exhausting and often fruitless. Yet in barbershop, singers undergo this process on a daily basis. Not only must they know their parts by heart, but they must also practice tirelessly for the chords to eventually lock. In every rehearsal, barbershoppers constantly strive towards achieving that beautiful sound of a properly “locked” chord or a ringing overtone. Though it’s a strenuous undertaking, they shoulder it to reach the fruits that the journey bears.

In this same vein, I believe that one must expend effort and dedication when grappling with complexity, for there is joy in reaching understanding after a long-fought struggle. We’re bound to feel a sense of catharsis in finding illumination  —simplicity—at the end of a twisting labyrinth. And once we’ve felt that catharsis a couple of times, it becomes almost like an addiction, a permanent goal which we work towards with hopeful dedication. When we arrive at this stage in life, complexity will provide us with a constant sense of fulfilment and purpose to help us advance as more enlightened individuals.

Ever since my encounter with barbershop, I’ve begun to see complexity through a completely different lens. I see it not as a notion we must avoid or be discouraged from, but rather as a possible realm from which we can derive simplicity. A convoluted knot may appear daunting and even a little ugly, but beneath its unruly surface, there is beauty resting at its core. To reach it, we must take the time to untangle it string by string. We have to put it in on trial and experiment with it — turning it side to side, flipping it over and up. We must embrace it.

In our pursuit towards simplification, let us just pause and turn to where we least expect to find it. Look. There is clarity faintly shimmering in the opaque; can you see it? There are soft harmonies resonating from the complex; do you hear them?

To watch a video of a professional barbershop quartet in action, please click here.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections piece, teen writer Jung Woo Bae explains how we can find simplicity and clarity amidst complexity and chaos by delving into his experience of being in a barbershop quartet. 

The Harmony of Complexity

Uday Schultz

Ever since I was young, mass transit has fascinated me. It started simply with a love of watching trains as they thundered by and expanded into a fascination with the web of transit lines that added a layer of complexity to the map of New York City, my hometown.

These lines are the city’s blood vessels, connecting people and places of all types. As more places replicate New York’s transportation success, mass transit is coming to define the modern metropolis. People are moving away from the private automobile as the primary mode of transport, and urban areas across America are being swept up in the largest boom in transit construction since the turn of the last century. Cities like Denver and Dallas are starting from scratch, while others — like my hometown — work to shape an older network to newer needs. Yet it is not just the chosen mode of conveyance in these metropolises that is changing. The flows of people are changing, and with them, patterns of living, patterns of work, and, to an extent, patterns of thought. The compartmentalized, decentralized, car-based city is reconsolidating and becoming more complex as people change their ways of life in response to transportation. This newfound density is altering physical environments, economic networks, and social interactions as we all become part of an intricate urban network.

For almost seven decades, starting in the 1920s, the car dominated the perceived future of transport. Regarded as a manifestation of freedom, cars became a common mode of transportation for Americans in the mid-20th century, leading to massive urban decentralization as the upper and middle classes were equipped to flee cities for the suburbs. This created a nation of parallel universes, in which interactions with others were optional. People began to live in detached, single family homes, from where they would drive to work in private cars. Maybe they would stop at a supermarket or outlet store somewhere along the way, but even there, the only person they ever had to interact with in their purchase of items ranging from paper towels to cabbage was the cashier. This, of course, contrasts with classical urban life, in which people lived in apartments, took trolleys or trains to work, labored alongside others in relatively cramped offices, and did their shopping at the myriad unique stores that once lined commercial streets from coast to coast.

Workplaces changed, too. As people moved away from cities, their jobs also began to relocate, creating the phenomenon of the suburban office campus. Once the epitome of corporate modernity, these establishments  quickly populated suburbia from the 1950s to the 1970s, allowing office workers to both live and work in the hinterland, never having to set foot in the urban core. All across America, companies fled their seemingly antiquated office towers for a leafy, exclusively car-accessible “paradise,” where they would be both closer to their workers and able to use cheap, plentiful land.

But when this suburbanization seemed almost complete, a reversal began. In the late 1980s, urban cores rose from their ashes; they finally surpassed the suburbs in terms of development after the Great Recession.  As the decades of urban decline ended, people and jobs began to trickle back into the dense centers of cities either out of necessity — people following their peers, and companies following their workforce — or out of a desire for that more cosmopolitan atmosphere that the suburbs lack.  People do not want to be chained to their car, living in the cultural isolation of suburbia; people want to be around others, to be able get around without an automobile, and to absorb the cultural diversity of our urban cores.

Economic geographies have changed also, both causing and resulting from this resurgence in mass transit, as increasing numbers of suburbanites return to working in the city and companies consolidate their once disseminated operations. Over the past decade or so, corporations have been leaving their wooded, bucolic office campuses in the suburbs for office towers in the city. As people grew dissatisfied with suburban life and businesses realized the failings of the dispersed model, companies and capital began to trickle back into cities, reinvigorating urban business districts. To get to and from their relocated jobs (and possibly their relocated houses), many workers have turned to public transit, thereby increasing demand and causing transport providers to expand service. This growth further eases transport between the hinterland and the core, propagating growth.

The return to density creates a complex economic structure, forcing companies to find ways to streamline their business and labor practices to deal with the loss of individualized space — namely, to interact. Furthermore, it creates a new type of office worker. No longer is the future white-collar employee seen to be driving to work from a veritable mansion on the suburban fringe, but instead riding a bus or train to work from an apartment.

Just as the car redefined suburbia in the mid-1900s, today mass transit is reshaping its physical face, adding complexity to its once more uniform appearance. In response to societal shifts over the last twenty years, suburban developers now try to imitate cities in the heart of the sprawling suburbs, creating smaller, satellite cities to feed the growing core. This density stems from a need to take advantage of transit services without having to drive or walk long distances, which necessitates living within, say, half a mile of the station. Obviously, only a small number of people can live in this mile-wide circle if builders follow conventional suburban planning patterns, so instead, transit-focused communities are constructed to accommodate larger numbers of people. From Seattle to Nassau County, the suburbs are slowly contracting into dense settlements around stations or terminals, creating a markedly different landscape. In areas that were once vast plains of centerless sprawl, focus points have developed, downtowns have reformed, and the car has been on the wane. I have seen this change, watching towers rise from subdivisions, congregating around train stations and terminals in Long Island, Westchester, and New Jersey. Transit systems create a second network, a second planning paradigm, both separate from and complementary to roads, thereby adding complexity to the urban landscape.

Finally, public transportation has social implications that tectonically alter our interactions with others. Automotive life created a country of millions of bubbles, each going about its life by its rules and with as little interaction with others as possible. From the detached single family house in a sea of sprawl, to the corporate campus with thousands of individual offices, to the sprawling, automated shopping centre, the car created a world of parallel existences. Moreover, participating in this culture required the means to purchase a car and a suburban abode, excluding the working poor and causing unprecedented geographic inequality.

Public transit changes this equation. On commuter trains, buses, light rail cars, or subways, everyone sits in the same seats, shares the same vehicle, and has to coexist with others regardless of socioeconomic position. When I ride the subway, I  mix with people from every walk of life and from all over the globe, and do so respectfully. Public transit is the great equalizer. Our microcosms are forced to combine, to interact, and to become a part of something larger. And they have to do so every day.

Transit is so much more than a means of travel. It is a tool of economic change, social justice, and civic reinvention. By forcing awareness of others, by creating a forum for a showcase of difference, it creates empathy. In a time when we too often lack this very compassion, transit can create it organically, without the pains of manufacturing it. Not only is mass transit revolutionizing the way in which we live and work, but it is also revolutionizing thought.  It truly is remaking America.

“Briefing Report #3: Case Studies for Transit Oriented Development.” Prepared by Reconnecting America for the Local Initiatives Support Corporation. March 2009. http://www.fltod.com/research/general_tod/case_studies_for_tod.pdf

Frizell, Sam. “The New American Dream Is Living in a City, Not Owning a House in the Suburbs.” Time, April 25, 2014. http://time.com/72281/american-housing/

Mozingo, Louise A. Pastoral Capitalism: A History of Suburban Corporate Landscapes. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2011.

McDonald, John F. Postwar Urban America: Demography, Economics, and Social Policy. New York: Routledge, 2015.

Schwartz, Nelson D. “Why Corporate America Is Leaving the Suburbs for the City.” New York Times, August 1, 2016. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/02/business/economy/why-corporate-america-is-leaving-the-suburbs-for-the-city.html

Sisson, Patrick. “The New American Suburb: Diverse, Dense, and Booming.” Curbed, October 12, 2016. http://www.curbed.com/2016/10/12/13255596/suburb-urban-planning-millennial-immigration-report-baby-boomer

Wogan, J.B. “Why Companies Are Moving Back Downtown.” Governing, August 2016. http://www.governing.com/topics/urban/gov-urban-downtown-economic-development.html

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Uday Schultz explores the complex ways forms of mass transit, such as subways, buses, and trains, are reshaping our lives, cities, and identities. 

Transit to Tomorrow

Pakeeza Mushtaq

I bought everything I ever wanted
I earned a lot to live a luxurious life
I had a huge house, decorated with priceless things
The poor begged me for food
But the greed of money always made me refuse
I watched them sleep on the sidewalk
As I slept on my comfortable bed

But there was something missing that never let me sleep a relaxing night
I could never understand why God gave me so much
I always ignored the needy people with my selfish heart
The power of money never let me realize my mistake

As I started searching the whole world for something to disperse the sadness in my heart
I thought, “There is something wrong I can’t understand”
As if I missed a step while running on a path for so long

I wondered if a morning walk could give me that answer
I could hear the birds, I could hear them for real
The smile of that poor child sitting there was even brighter than mine
He had nothing in his hand but his eyes were filled with shine
In all that silence I could hear his tummy’s growl
But he had a faith that his God wouldn’t let him die of hunger

I shared what I had, he accepted with all of his heart
Questions were popping in my mind but his innocent face answered them all from the start
His thankful hands gave me what had been lost for years
His pretty smile rid me of all those tears
I was finding happiness
I was finding peace
in all those things that shine like gold, but are made of concrete

Happiness had a connection with smiles, which I forgot in all that greed
“Money can’t buy happiness,” now I understood that for sure
My helping hands let my ears escape from hearing that avarice roar
My bed was softer, my pillow more light
After wasting all those years, I finally had a peaceful night

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Pakeeza Mushtaq explores the simple joy of generosity and giving. 

Priceless Smiles

Rev. Konrad Ryushin Marchaj

This is utterly simple. This is infinitely complex.

The simplicity is you reading this article, residing and resting precisely in the experience of your body and mind, balanced elegantly at the intersection of here and now. You are “being” effortlessly, regardless of your circumstances. You may be confused by this sentence, curious, already debating it and me, or nodding your head in affirmation. You may be bathed by slanting rays of the setting sun filtering through the window. You may be having a bit of indigestion from that extra taco you consumed quickly during lunch. You may be bemused. You may be bored. Nevertheless, no matter what the obvious and subtle ingredients of this experience are, you remain inescapably present and aware without needing to do anything about it. Be it ecstatic or horrifying, happy or sad, clear or confused, you are perpetually at the center of this moment. Simple enough.

The complexity is the intricate and multilayered interconnectivity underlying the very same experience. You have endless ways of seeing and narrating it, while your being and being intimate with yourself always remain singular and unified. Your capacity to think, feel, find your place within your family dynamics, appreciate your relevance within the 13.7 billion year history which is this universe, on this amazing planet, at this amazing stretch of history, with these amazing fellow beings, sentient and insentient, and make meaning of all of this with all of your neurological circuitry firing smoothly across all of your 100 billion brain neurons is mind boggling. Complex enough.

I am a Zen Buddhist, sometimes a student, sometimes a teacher, which to me means that I am dedicated to learning how to live this life as completely, authentically, clearly, kindly, and skillfully as I can, and to share this investigative project with others. Investigation is the key word, here applied to the search into the fundamental nature of simplicity and complexity, and their relationship. I suggest that this relationship is one of identity. Simplicity is complexity; complexity is simplicity.

Zen Buddhists are, notoriously, not philosophers. If anything, they are fanatical realists and pragmatists. They are technicians with a mystical twist, tinkerers and surfers of the fabric of reality. If they carried business cards, their operational title would read: provocateurs of exhaustive exploration into personal awakening. This short essay is not a hard sell. It is an invitation. The purpose of this offering is not abstract or metaphysical. It is not even spiritual. It is about sharing with you how it is that we can navigate this world honoring both the infinity of its differences and its irreducible simplicity, celebrating the places where our paths diverge and the common ground on which we stand and tread. There is a still point that is always at the center of this swirling life, and that point is nothing but your awakened mind and caring heart.

Consider these verses by T.S. Eliot from Four Quartets:

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

There is only the dance, the kaleidoscopic dance of impermanence that is at times exquisite and at times terrifying, that includes our births, deaths and everything in between. And that dance of ultimate affirmation rests on that simple still point that is always accessible. When we verify that simplicity, we find that it is not frozen or static. It is as simple and responsive as the stillness that a river feels as its waters cascade down the rapids or meander across the plains, being one body that reaches from its source to the ocean, neither in the past nor the future, but only in this ungraspable now.

How do you stop a river in its incessant flow? How do you stop suffering in this world? More modestly, how do you stop the sound of a frog jumping into a pond? Something about that mystery points towards the nature of true simplicity, simplicity that has nothing to do with isolating ourselves from the bustle of the world or superimposing convenient simplifications upon the world in hope of gaining some control. What would it mean to stop the simplicity that is the dance, that is the end of suffering, that is the magnificent river, that is that green and yellow, glistening frog breaking the surface of that pond?

Japanese poet Basho suggests this in his very famous haiku:

There is a folk tale from the early years of Zen tradition. Sometime in seventh century southern China, there lived a 17-year-old youth named Hui-neng. He was illiterate and hard working, collecting firewood in local forests and selling it in order to supplement his family’s meager earnings. There was a keen spirit about him, and he applied himself to his tasks with joyful fervor and wholehearted effort. One day, while returning from his work afield loaded with sticks and dry branches, he heard a monk chanting an ancient sutra, a Buddhist teaching. At first, the distance and the wind made it impossible for him to make out the words, but when he got close enough he heard this passage, “Abiding nowhere, manifest your heart/mind.” Simply hearing these words he had a profound enlightenment experience. He saw into the nature of reality and the nature of his being. He clearly realized the radical truth of the equation: simplicity is complexity and complexity is simplicity. He also recognized that he only glimpsed a spark of light, and that he needed to study and practice further in order to be able to bring his insights to life. He began a spiritual path centered on meditation.

“Heart/mind” in Chinese is xin — less an anatomical organ and more a human sensibility and faculty, a point of singularity and point of connectivity, our capacity to know and our capacity to feel. The line that jarred Hui-neng can be seen in the most streamlined way as instructions in true meditation, meditation that we can do in isolated mountain retreats and meditation that we can do right in the midst of our bustling life. Abiding nowhere is most challenging. To abide is to remain, to stand fast, to be the still point. Fair enough. But we are exhorted to do that while nowhere, to do that without any fixity of references, triangulations, postures. Without maps or props, inner and outer. Abide in that presence, stillness, and freedom.

Abide nowhere — now and here, as that is the only place you can abide anyway. So start and stop there. This is not some verbal trick or sophistry. Reflect deeply on what is now and what is here. What is the duration of a moment? What are the boundaries of here? If you cannot take hold of it and grasp it, how complex can it be? I love a quote from a modern physicist speaking on quantum gravity who said that the shortest distance between two points, in space and in time, is here and now. Lucky for all of us, inescapably lucky, that this is so.

Now, manifest your heart/mind resting nowhere. Let yourself fly while retaining that resting space, that simplicity. Be like an experienced surfer finding total poise and solidity right on the edge of a colossal breaking wave that you will be riding your whole life. Right on that edge where the speed of chaos is at its maximum, where the crash of impermanence in its sundry manifestations is almost overwhelming, your simplicity is unabated. You are still. You are the still point of the turning, crashing world.

Although simplicity is complexity and vice versa, we are much more familiar with, captured in, and frequently spit out by complexity. In the end, when we match our wits with Hui-neng, when we can stop the sound of that frog splashing about, we will be able to be still while moving, speak while remaining silent, share ourselves with the whole universe while being alone. But to get there we have to verify for ourselves the presence of that inherent simplicity and stillness. We have to take a backward step into the innermost facets of our experience, finding intimacy and comfort with who we are. Not reach for some ideal, but relax into our current perfection. Simplicity is already there, already here, waiting for us.

In Buddhist traditions, meditation is the entry point into stillness, silence, and simplicity. It is an entry point into spaciousness. Meditation is not disconnection and withdrawal. When we meditate we are not escaping from the complexity of our lives. We are discovering the quality of mind that is available to us all the time smack in the middle of that complexity. We are claiming the still point of our heart/mind so we can be kind, then kinder, and do some good in this crazy, beautiful, complicated, turbulent world we share.

In a KidSpirit PerSpectives essay, Zen teacher Rev. Konrad Ryushin Marchaj invites us to find simplicity, space, and clarity in the present moment, regardless of the complexity and chaos around us.

Simplicity Is Complexity: Complexity Is Simplicity

Haemaru Chung

The clouds drift idly above
The afternoon heat is sweltering
Time appears to suspend itself and
An overwhelming wave of lethargy is settling

A blue jay sits on a fragile branch
Of a small tree nearby
The radiant blues of the bird
Standing out from its dull green surroundings
As it rests in the cool shade
Of the leaves swaying gently

It adjusts its position delicately
Now sitting in plain view
Tilting its head towards the sky
Proud, nonchalant and carefree

The coal-black eyes exude a stern, noble air
While the golden afternoon sunlight
Showers the blue jay
Like a blanket of sunshine resting over the feathers
The perfect image ephemeral

The bird leans forward slightly
And his wings flap in a burst of motion
Falling leaves quiver as the bird streaks past
Leaving behind an afterimage of swirling blue feathers

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Haemaru Chung meditates on the simplicity and stillness of a springtime moment in nature.

Capturing the Moment

Ayla Schultz

It was a late afternoon in January. Dusty light fell slowly onto the green rumpled bed cover.

I sat transfixed, watching men dance on the wall between life and death, shouting at each other, deciding the fate of an 18-year-old boy. As they argued about details that were overlooked in the original trial, I wondered: how often are the courts’ verdicts right? Do most jurors just choose the simplest answer?

The movie that provoked these questions is 12 Angry Men, a 1957 courtroom drama.  The film, directed by Sidney Lumet, is about a jury's process of deciding if an 18-year-old boy has killed his father.

I used to find black and white movies boring, feeling that without color the world was monotonous. This changed a few years ago, when I became fascinated with old crime dramas and started appreciating their style and lack of blood and gore. I stumbled across 12 Angry Men because it has been hailed as a classic from the moment that it came out. Many people told me that it is an amazing, almost life-changing movie, and it piqued my interest.

On the surface, the film is deceptively simple; it is all set in a single courthouse. The themes it explores, however, are far from simple and just as relevant today as they were in 1957. The movie reveals the fact that the justice system is not impartial and that jurors are human, each one bringing his or her their own sets of preconceptions to the table. The fate of the accused can rely on just one single person’s mood or biases. Truth is not an absolute and can be bent by the will or the neglect of a juror.

In the beginning of the movie, it seems as if the boy on trial is undoubtedly guilty, but Juror #8 decides to take it upon himself to dig beneath the surface and ensure the jury is not making a hasty decision. He feels the situation is more complex than meets the eye. He doesn’t want to condemn someone to death without being absolutely certain of his guilt.

Juror #8 sets into motion a situation where the jurors get into arguments with one another. One of the main quarrels is between Juror #8 and Juror #3 and concerns the angle at which the boy supposedly killed his father.  Juror #3 is wrong but refuses to admit it, and Juror #8 knows this. This scenario movie perfectly embodies the frustration felt by the participants, frustration that we all feel sometimes when we one know that someone, or something, is wrong, but no one will believe us. I could feel myself getting angry along with the characters as they bickered back and forth about different details of the case. By taking the route of greater complexity, Juror #8 makes his situation more difficult and dangerous, but he is driven to do so by his moral compass.

12 Angry Men examines many themes that are still relevant today. In the search for truth, the baggage that each juror brings greatly affects justice. One man (Juror #10) simply thinks that the boy is guilty because he has a “bad background.” The boy comes from the poorer part of the city, and therefore some of the jurors think that he must have killed his father based on that fact alone. This element of the plot reveals how the jury process is complicated by people’s preconceptions and stereotypes about others.

My favorite character is Juror #5, who notices a lot more than people ever gave him credit for. Initially he seems like a cartoon of a crazy old man, with unkempt hair and large glasses that barely stay on his nose. However, his character develops as the movie proceeds, and it becomes clear that he is more complex than he first appears. He manages to bring important points to light that sway people’s opinions, while also adding just the subtlest touch of humor to a dark situation.

I would not have been able to focus in the characters as much as I did if the cinematography had not been so perfectly fitted to the movie.  Most of the movie is filmed in medium and long shots, creating a certain distance from all of the characters, enhancing the feeling of tension and uncertainty as to the outcome. The occasional close ups that occur are well timed and precisely placed to coincide with important moments. Each shot is well planned out and specific. Overall, the cinematography in the movie sets up a feeling that the situation is being examined impartially.

I would give 12 Angry Men four and a half out of five stars, because it is a timeless movie that is just as relevant today as it was in the 1950s. It is great for all ages, and I do not think that you have to be interested in the US legal system to fully enjoy it. Classism and discrimination are prevalent in any society, and this movie brings to light how they can impede the search for truth in the course of justice. The film made me think of truth as a twisted creature, never appearing in the same form twice. Every decision we make about who is the bearer of honesty is influenced in some way. Whether we do not trust the person or feel that he or she is too unlike, it is hard to ever know if someone is really telling the truth. This movie examines that theme in a way that is very accessible for most people, and I think that it is worth watching just for that fact alone.

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Ayla Schultz gives her take on the classic movie 12 Angry Men.

A Review of 12 Angry Men

Grace Luckett

When we hear the word “conformity,” many of us have an immediate negative reaction. We think of a dystopian society, of individuality being stifled, and of losing one’s own sense of self.

What we don’t think of is the everyday normal instances of compliance, like stopping at red lights, attending jury duty, and going to school. Those two situations are both examples of conformity, but they’re very different. What exactly makes them different?

To understand the modern importance of conformity, we have to explore its past. Its very roots can be traced nearly as far back as the first humans. In the dangerous landscape of prehistoric earth, there were two main components to survival: the hunting and gathering of food and protection from predators. Performing either of these tasks alone was difficult. In order to increase their chances of success, humans began to form groups and tribes that hunted prey and defended against attacks in coordinated efforts. Ultimately, without a populace willing to work in similar patterns, the human race would not have been able to exist.

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Grace Luckett examines the roots of conformity.

Why Do We Conform?

Do we live in an age of complexity? Why is it so difficult to appreciate the simple joys of life? Young writers and artists around the world grapple with balancing these concepts in the modern era.

Complex Roots

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