Finding Home

          Going to school far from home has certainly been an experience. Up in Baltimore I’m more or less on my own- I have friends- but the family is split in Pennsylvania and Georgia. The majority of Loyola’s New York and New Jersey student body are more or less in their element, they have easy access to home while I’m one of the only ‘Johnny Rebs’ on campus. It was certainly a change freshmen year, but truth be told, it was a smooth adjustment.  I love Baltimore, but this doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I miss the old homestead, the family, and friends, and sights, and just feel that define what I would call my homeland. This year I left home in early September and didn’t return once until Christmas break. The atmosphere up north is great, I have met new people, encountered new ideas, slowly but surely I am carving my own place in the world. I’ve also learned that spending long lengths of time away from the familiar, kindles a new found respect and reverence for that which the individual returns too. 

                It’s funny. I can remember when I was kid wanting to get away from Ellenwood (the suburban area I live in just south of the city), leave it in the dust as they say. Now, for most of the year I am- and it is now I recognize how my original surroundings were crucial to my initial development. I feel like these past three years more than ever I have recognized my roots in this particular state, this was where by an odd stroke of fate my mother and grandmother ended up living. This is the only state where my Father’s line came to America- making me the first Campos born on American soil. It is a state filled with history and natural beauty, the Georgian wilderness tempting my imagination since I can remember. The culture and genuine warmth the people display here are also what have shaped my own sense of courtesy and respect towards other people.  

                Being from Atlanta has actually become a part of my identity. In a school where the majority responses to “where are you from?” are either Long Island, or Jersey, perhaps the occasional Connecticut or Maryland (yes, not that many Marylanders, but they have a presence)- I’m one of the few that replies with a southern state. Exotic, as this one random upperclassman commented my freshmen year. Yes, I could tell many a story of how… shocked or disappointed (not quite sure) people were/are that I do not possess a very strong southern accent- if any at all.  It makes me unique- or rather adds to my unique presence. Remember to always embrace where you come from, because in some way it helps mold who you are, what you become. Though you as the individual form your being, I feel that this is influenced by the acceptance and/or rejection of your environment and people in your life.

                I’ve certainly had adventures this trip, from my Uncle’s backyard, to the mountains of northern Georgia, to historic Oakland Cemetery. I explored new sites, and experienced shenanigans that shall be remembered always, conjuring laughs and sighs for years to come. It’s the smallest things about home, about those you become closest with, that you really pick up on with time and in reexamination. It’s the funny quirks of individual family members that make you laugh, the general oddness of people that’s really funny- God knows I have had many of those experiences this trip and it’s those moments that really chisel a smile on your face, into your memory, forever. It’s those moments that return people to home, just as much as images of the physical locations.

                There is a fundamental need for Human Beings to have a home, a homeland. The home goes beyond any physical location. People live all over the world, an individual can own several houses, but does that make each of them a home? Or is there a presence of home in each of these houses? The truth is, I believe, that a home more than anything is a house of memories, good, bad, but over all impacting, shaping a person’s life. The home is family. The home is memory.

                It is because of this that I imagine it’s so hard to create a new home when setting out into the world. Though in a way you never leave, because of the memory, the memories survive, and you take those with you. It’s based on those memories that you create new ones, new homes, those are the bricks that truly shape how one lives. Memories can fade of course, whether by sickness or just passing time. In that case one has to look to who they are as an individual, and acknowledge that it was in no small part because of their roots, their home, both the people and the location.

                To find one’s home is to know a part of oneself, in a great sense this is every person’s origin. Of course the higher home for us all is God, in his infinite forms, The Creator. In knowing both of these origins we can learn to better understand the individual person, and the human race, and the divine. To truly find one’s home is to be able to grasp a kind of safety and contentment in yourself as well as the outside world- and of course those who make them all worthwhile.

                Like the Red Road, the home is defined uniquely, we shape it ourselves. Therefore, a home just as with people, is to each its own. In this my dear friends and readers, I invite you to meditate on your own sense of home. Look for the small things, take a walk outside, and if you reach some powerful thought or just want to share your own ideas of home, please do. Remember, the Shield Hall is open.    

                Shifting gears, I would like to take the time to share my love and appreciation to all my family and friends for making this a great return home. You make it so, all of you.    

               

Life's Three Bridges

                It’s good to be writing for Shield Hall again. It feels like it has been so long since I have had the time to just sit and meditate and write something other than my novel… or a damn school paper. I was thinking of what to write about when earlier this week it came in a question both simple and profound, and yet all together complicated in the end: what is it people truly want in life? We all have individual callings, dreams, we create our own red road; but certainly as a Human person there must be some commonly sought aspects of life that we all desire to attain, that we need. Some people, in our age of commercialism, where wealth can often be more of a judge of character, than well… character, they can lose sight of these inner motives for existence. When it comes down to it though, what I seek, what all people truly desire are things that can’t be physically touched at all. On our road of life we are all drawn to have acceptance, love, and purpose. These are the fruits of life, these are what the soul truly desires. What makes life, life.

                Humans are social animals, in some way shape or form, we need a pack to belong to. We yearn for acceptance. It is natural that people want to be around others, we form friendships, we live in family units, we bond together, and are there for one another. Relationships are also a way to judge a person’s character, ‘you know what kind of man a person is by the company they keep’. A truly close and fulfilling relationship of any kind is one where each person accepts the other for who they are, what they stand for.  Acceptance is in many ways is an affirmation of one’s identity. People desire true relationships because that means people accept them for who they truly are, these people care about this individual, they find worth in his personhood and company, his presence carries value in another’s life. This acceptance proves to the individual that they fit into this world; their individuality is a positive thing that others place value in. While not everyone fits in everywhere and with everyone, numbers don’t matter. It’s those close to us that give us true worth, they care about us, and they are gift to be around. They are our mentors, close friends, and family. In a world mostly of strangers it’s these people who most define who we become and what we value.

                Love I find is very similar to acceptance, a different branch of the concept if you will. Let’s face it, everyone has at one point dreamed of a perfect love. Not everyone carries on a romantic ideal, but in some way I believe everyone is searching for that second half of themselves. I am. Yet love comes in many forms. There is most obviously the love of family, the backbone. They teach you how to love, and how it feels to be cherished by someone. Friendship is a form of love too. When friends are there for each other, lifting one another up, inspiring, and bringing faith to their friend- this is love as well. Love is the earnest caring for another person. We all need to be loved, and in order to be loved one must have an open heart to love. True love of any kind, is one that values the individual’s being, love of the person. The romantic love is no different.

                Everyone has a purpose. It is what gives our life meaning, it distinguishes the individual from all other individuals. Every man dreams his life will have great impact, and so he searches and searches for his purpose in life. One’s purpose if he so chooses is his calling, something higher than himself, a means to do great things. Again relates to one’s identity, as we all seek to distinguish ourselves as individuals. We all want to carve our own path, and we hope that it’s a road others will look upon and smile. The purpose of one’s life is so important that it can take a lifetime to discover, and seem almost impossible to reach. A mountain. And yet when this purpose, this true purpose is in sight, we climb. The true test of a person is how hard they climb, past the crags, and drops, and rocks life can throw, and reach the top- their purpose, their dreams. These people are the heroes of our time, and among their other purposes is to inspire us to seek our own path, and to work ever harder to be a positive force in this world. Such inspiration is selfless and is something any man or woman in any position can do for others. “The wise man works unselfishly for the good of all the world.” (The Bhagavad-Gita) I have noticed that life truly matters because of those around us and how we interact with those put in our path. Our individual purpose can also be seen in our impact on another’s life. I know I would not be who I am without the guidance and friendship I’ve received from my family, friends, and mentors. One life effects another, we must all be that positive force to another life.

                Life is beautiful. And hard. Nothing hurts more than feeling like an outcast, or being unaccepted by those you should be. Nothing is more saddening than feeling alone. There is nothing more disheartening than wondering about your place in the world, or where your path will lead. And yet when one does achieve these things, that is truly a happy life. These three bridges we all must cross in our lives can be hard to achieve, sometimes they can be harder than others, but on the other side are true marvels. For nothing is greater than love, and having true relationships that accept you, and having a path you wish to steer your life in. Very hard, but worth the struggle. I imagine that life without struggle would not be life at all but a blissful dream.  And yet when life is good, it is a dream still. I end encouraging my readers to have faith against the struggle, trust in yourselves, carpe diem! Don’t just walk the road of life, live it, work through the hard times, and good will come. Be a hand to help someone up, a shoulder to lean on and a listner, a guide to someone in need, and it will be returned to you in kind.  

Rising

Rising

Eric Campos

I’m falling

The world is spinning,

My spirit is crashing,

I’m crumbling to the ground.

               

I was walking the road,

Far from home,

I was walking alone,

And the burdens brought me down,

Stone in the water.

Pain brought me to my knees,

I was an outcast, fallen.

The road had become like raging seas,

And I was lost.

Pummeling waves, tempest blows,

Stinging rain lashes my back,

As I lay broken on life’s trail,

Heavy sadness, betrayal, they engulf my sight.

The light of hope begins to black,

I cannot do it. I am defeated.

And then…

A hand.

It grasped my shoulder and brought me to my feet,

And the pain began to quell,

I no longer fell.

The light of hope returned in my sight,

I could continue the road, the fight,

I wasn’t alone,

I had a friend at my side.

There were trials still,

And pain ahead,

Many, many, more.

But as before, I had presences to keep me strong,

To give me faith.

I’m rising.

For Nick, and Mom, and all my family and friends who have stood by me, and given me the inspiration to rise to my feet every time. May the Author Of All Things, guide and protect you all.

Fate or Fault

Eric Campos

In this ending time I spell my rhyme,

And wonder what brought the world to its fate.

Was it the time, the date, the Creator called end?
Was it prophesy that spelled our demise?
That blackened the skies?
That destroyed the land?
That drove the sea to its barren state?
Was it a trumpet call that sounded Man’s fall,
Or was the Man himself to blame?

Is it the shame of Man,
The fall of his own world?
Is Man’s own hand the weapon of his destruction?
Can one’s hands still mold redemption?
For ourselves?
For the world we live in?
Does Man not carve his own path?

Power of the Artifact

            About two weekends ago, I found myself at one of my favorite museums, The Carlos Museum at Emory University in Atlanta. I’ve been there a few times, I love it there, so much history, so many stories, and they are told through the artifacts.  It never gets old . . . pun intended.  Just recently I found myself meditating on why we even have museums.  Why do we preserve our history? What is it about these objects that fascinates generations? 

            It was on that Saturday, I was looking in the Near-East section of the Museum.  It was from Babylon and Ur and Sumeria that Civilization first flourished, where writing was invented and stories, myths, were first told.  It was with this in the back of my mind that a particular object caught my eye. Beside other arrowheads and weapon fragments was this Bronze Age,  Assyrian (or Akadian- I can’t fully recall) dagger, perfectly preserved through the ages.  Near the hilt there was even an inscription in Cuneiform , which is thought  to be the earliest form of writing. While looking at this dagger, I came upon two thoughts. Formed by a smithy with the utmost precision and skill, by hand, sweat, and hammer alone - this dagger  had seen over thousands years, probably countless battles, known several bearers , and has survived the test of time to the point it is now admired by myself and others- that in itself is amazing! And second there is also the deeper element, the human element. We will probably never know who pounded the bronze to form the dagger, let alone who wielded it. But somehow their story, and the story of their time, has been etched into the metal itself. It is interesting that the Samurai of feudal Japan hold their own swords with immense respect and look upon it as a thing of beauty as well as a tool of war.  They believed that the blade itself houses their soul and the souls of their ancestors who wielded it before them. In kind, this can also be said for other various artifacts in a manner of speaking.  

            Whether it be an ancient dagger or a family heirloom, objects do matter. They do have the power to tell great stories, even if it is just stretching one’s mind back to a past time. What is very powerful about artifacts, and really objects in general, is that they are made by us. They contain one of the greatest aspects of our humanity: our desire to create beautiful things. Whether it be the thousands of Greek amphorae and other pottery that decorate various museums or Michelangelo’s The David, we look at them and no matter our age or nationality we all find ourselves just completely taken with these marvels. Like any artwork the artifact is an expression the creator’s inner-self. This is the way I feel with the written word, but the physical object invites a different admiration, after all the beauty is right in front of one’s eyes. Yet even artifacts of no particular beauty, or of a more grim nature, they too are windows to human nature, our history. I believe that museums are so fascinating because they contain all these untold, unwritten stories. Their creators may have no name, no face, but it is through these artifacts that people are touched with another’s vision, even from thousands of years ago. Such is the power of beauty and man’s passion that drives him to create for others, and to express himself in the form of a physical object.  

            Again I invite all comments, stories, thoughts, share of your own artifact. The Shield Hall is open. I also highly suggest that you all check out the excellent response blog on my latest post, What About Heroes. My good friend Nick expresses his own thoughts on heroes and approaches the subject from a particularly Catholic viewpoint. It is an excellent piece and the kind of which I hope to provoke in any of my readers!

           

           

What About Heroes?

       Since man first began telling stories, before they were even written down, there were heroes. Hercules, Sigurd, Arjuna, Yoshitsune, Galahad, King David; all people, all cultures have heroes. We need them. From these mythic heroes have evolved characters that vary in kind, from Bilbo Baggins to Atticus Finch, and yes even comic book superheroes. The ancient stories continue their influence in our on modern age, stories fueling, inspiring, new stories. New heroes. 

       The hero himself (or herself) while varied is unchanged. They are powerful, clever, often displaying godlike abilities. They can be seen doing amazing deeds, and at the same time undergoing immense struggle both internally and externally. They display the greatest aspects of mankind: benevolent protector, brave warrior, just king. And yet they also display the most flawed. They are amazing in their awe inspiring feats, and yet it is not an uncommon thing to see the hero fall in his battle. From ancient myths to our age of Harry Potter, the hero is both loved and hated, misunderstood. Many heroes can also be seen as, among other things, an outcast.

       The legendary founder of Rome, Aeneas, was thrown into exile after his native Troy was burned out of existence. His story tells of a warrior’s struggle to protect and find refuge for the last of his people. Several scholars and friends have mixed feelings about Aeneas. For one thing, the hero is described having pietas (piety or fidelity), hailed as pious Aeneas; but we see throughout Virgil’s text that often times he loses sight of his higher calling. This is primarily demonstrated in his relationship with the Carthaginian Queen Dido. Many people find it distasteful, weak, that he fell into a romantic relationship and was distracted from his duty to the people- but when reminded of his duty, he just left her. With a heavy heart he parted from Dido, and would eventually contribute to the founding of Rome. Broken hearted, Dido committed suicide. It was Aeneas’ fate, he had to do leave, but many still look down upon the hero for that - among other things. Personally I take a more empathetic stance (as do others). I see Aeneas as caught in a moment of being human, making human mistakes. Aeneas had lost everything, his wife, father, home. He not only had his child to look after but also the only survivors of his nation. Dido presented a human connection and for a second after the initial chaos, he acted on it. Although the son of a goddess, he was still only human.

       It is ironic that the greatest of heroes are also the most unlikely. We all read in the bible of King David, how the youngest son of a poor Sheppard was ordained by God to be king of his people. Like Aeneas, David too was an outcast- at one time fleeing for his life against a vengeful King Saul. Yet even when David had access to kill Saul in his sleep, he did not. In fact we even read that he scolds Saul’s general for not guarding his lord more properly. David was the defeater of Goliath, builder of Jerusalem. He was a devout man and just ruler, and a poet.  He was still just a man. Even David fell into lust and corruption. While he is a great hero, certainly favored by God, he still possessed the flaws that effect everyday people, and he knew it. Heroes may be heroes, but they’re not perfect. For every remarkable aspect there can be in kind an equally ugly twist to the story. Because of their greatness, a hero’s flaws can be even greater than the common man’s, just as their deeds are uncommon.

       Why do we admire heroes? Why do we need them?  Those are very simple yet complicated questions. Here’s my take, because everyone reads things differently- though I do believe my answers are shared because let’s face it: everyone loves a hero, needs them too. Heroes are the individuals who take a stand. They may be outcasts, even sinners looking for redemption, they can be anything and anyone. This just proves that while a person may not have superhuman abilities, it is in every human being’s potential to do great things, great good. We need heroes because they give us persons to look up to, and emulate, and dream of the impossible. Such has been our need that the hero has been a part of our stories and literature since the beginning, an endless cycle of characters all bound by prevailing traits and a shared journey. It is this archetypal character I shall further explore later in my English thesis, Why Did God Choose David? The Hero Archetype.

      If this very small reflection on heroes has prompted either curiosity, or desire for discussion, or even if you want to talk about your own heroes, please share your thoughts and we can explore this concept together. The Shield Hall is always open.

Paths

Paths

Eric Campos

I am a wanderer of the paths before me,

A humble traveler.

In the stillness of ponder, of woe, of agitation, it comes:

 The urge to venture out, to meander the paths before me.

                                             

The route is never known. The turns, the crossroads, are all possibilities.

To go left or right, forward or backward, the road simply tells me.

It does not shout, nor command me this way or that. It only offers me the path, many paths,

Towards an unknown destination. To traverse the land before me.

The sensations, so many as I tread.

To walk abroad, to dare venture into the world,

To leave behind the dread, the fear, the sorrow, let them stare as I move in spite of them,

Thus I am free, the world keeps moving. I am at peace.

I do not fear the open road,

Nor the questions of left or right,

I seek the insight in myself,

And the path to cross comes into sight.

Some paths may weave, and others diverge another way,

And I the traveler simply turn and climb and sway with the road before me,

For the true purpose lies not only at the end of the road, but the path itself,

The journey. The story to tell of the day.

I am a humble traveler,

Wandering far and wide.

The road is ever my friend, the path its gift to me,

The path of possibility, of opportunity,  

The path that is free to walk, and think, and dream.