F is for Fortune

'We should manage our fortune as we do our health; enjoy it when good, be patient when it is bad, and never apply violent remedies except in an extreme necessity' (Francois de la Rochefoucauld, French classical author, 1613-1680)

Fortune as told by the Oxford Dictionary:
noun
1. A large amount of money or assets
2. Chance as an arbitrary force affecting human affairs
3. Luck, especially good luck
4. The success or failure of a person or enterprise over a period of time

With so many ways of defining the word, is it any wonder we seem to have lost the true value behind it? Fortune. In a world where the brave remain the brave, the fearful remain the fearful and the homeless most certainly remain the homeless, I can't help but wonder; where does fortune lie? Does it still have a place in our ever-demanding lives? Or are we happy to just leave our fortunes residing in a cookie at the local Chinese?

I recently asked several good friends what the idea of fortune meant to them. Their responses were, admittedly, somewhat predictable; the students answered money, the loved-up answered family, and the corporate straights answered success. What wasn't so predictable was one last response. 'Fortune? Well that's just fate, isn't it?'

This got me thinking; where does fortune stop and fate begin? And how is it that we can discern between the two? Fate, that somewhat disheartening idea that we hold absolutely no responsibility for the path our life takes; that it's all pre-destined, pre-determined, written in the stars. Surely this is where the boundaries between Fate and Fortune have no option but to merge and become one; having good fortune has to come hand-in-hand with good fate. Doesn't it?

To accept fortune as that inevitable factor of life that we can neither change nor increase is, undeniably, a challenge. Every day we see those around us reaching better things, becoming accustomed to a better way of life. And every day we are forced to face up to the fact that there will always be some one just that little bit more successful than you. But even if the act of challenging our fortune is just as impossible as that of changing our fate, should this stop us from reaching a stage that we can truly sit back and say 'Yes. I am happy. I am where I want to be'. Should we rely so much on fate, on fortune, on an idea, a whim? Or is it time that we took back control of our own lives, and accept that maybe, just maybe, where we are now, we are at our most fortunate?

E is for Elegance...

'Elegance is something more than ease - more than freedom from awkwardness and restraint. It implies a precision, a polish, and a sparkling which is spirited, yet delicate' (William Hazlitt, writer, 1778)

I have often wondered whether this isn't something every person should aspire to. Elegance. Just the word conjures up so many thoughts, so many preconceptions. That stagnant belief that elegance died with the likes of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy; that classic, vintage elegance, with their corsets and their crinolines. An entire world away. Or, is this way of thinking too...stereotypical? Is it instead that elegance died with the media-driven revolution we find ourselves drowning in?

But then again, what if this is not the case? Is it possible that those priorities we, as a culture, prided ourselves in for so long, still exist? An underlying current, weaving its way, uncared for and cast aside, through our lives. If elegance still certifies itself within modern day life, it has me wondering; is elegance a way of life, or just a facade? And even then, who is it that defines elegance? Is it a mere personal perception, or is it something more, something that only those far up in the higher echelons of society are permitted to define; your Vogues and your Tatlers, who, with their deadly influence, appear to rule the world.

There seems to be a general, if not slightly bizarre consensus that states the most successful in life are those with two defining qualities that, in the desired circles, cut far above all else: Money and Power. You see them all around, unleashed amongst us unknowing, unsuspecting and unprepared Joe's and Jane's. It seems to have become an undeniable fact of life that being a 'nice' person is, quite simply, no longer enough. The world in all its glory demands more; in order to be noticed nowadays, you need to have something more about you, some quirk or unique characteristic. Not beauty - that can only go so far in separating us. It's that elusiveness, that mirage. Elegance.

And yet...I can't help but be sceptical; these ideals, these artificial oddities that almost all seem to strive for - what, in reality, do they achieve? Aren't they just components of some pre-packed, ready-made form of society? If we're all trying so hard to be different, do we therefore end up the same? What if all you needed to gain that ever sought after mysteriousness is elegance? Would that change the way we view society and its hierarchies? Or is elegance, true elegance, too rare to attain? Perhaps it is a luxury that you can gain and build upon, rather like that of an expensive art collection. Undeniably, an interesting and rather hopeful thought...or, rather, it is merely circumstance that allows one to grow into the highly conceived role of the 'elegant woman'.

But then again, this is after all, life we're talking about. I can't help but come to one slightly disappointing conclusion; maybe, just maybe; elegance is one of those unfair traits that Mother Nature cunningly bestows upon a select few. And as for the rest of us? Well, what can we do but try, try and try again.

D is for Dawning

'We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day' (Edith Lovejoy Pierce, Poet, 1904)

New Year's Eve has been and gone. Christmas has passed, taking with it the hype and childlike excitement that brews for the 24 days previous, leaving behind that inevitable, idealistic sense that only New Year can provide. As is typical, there are the normal cliches surrounding such time of year; resolutions, commitments to improbable ideas of physical, spiritual, and emotional renewal, ideas that, any other time of year, would be rejected due to their impossible qualities, and the severe lack of confidence that seems to exude from us, as a society. 

As each year has passed, I can't help but notice a certain notion surrounding that night of the 31st of December; an almost fairytale-like enthusiasm that would give Cinderella herself a run for her money. A hope surmounts that bolsters the large majority into believing that they are not, in fact, your every-day plain Jane or steady Stella who, whether intentionally or not, embodies their characters for the remaining 364 days of the year. Oh no, come the 31st December, for one night only, a new 'you' arises. And, for one night only, you seemingly give the best performance of your life. Until next year at least. 

And now this night has been and gone, leaving that dull ache of January blues, I can't help but wonder; what is it about us as a race that makes us so willing, so eager to change ourselves? With the pretence and excuse of the oh-so-stereotypical 'New Year, new start, new you' encompassing us, what is it that makes us so uncomfortable with just...being? I myself am an undeniable culprit of such ideas; since my initial comprehension and enlightening of the traditions of New Year, I have, without fail, dedicated myself to various ineffable challenges that, to be frank, I know I am never going to uphold. Oh, I guarantee that on this given night I will have every faith in myself; a kind of indestructible confidence that one night will be enough to change me as a person, to become the 'ideal' woman, to be the best person I can possibly be, to eat less sugar, to drink more green tea, to not cave in to the offer of a glass of wine. But yet...as always, January 1st follows, bringing with it the dawning of comprehension of just what you've committed yourself too. Rather like a bad hangover that, although rough for a time, will, inevitably, fade and be forgotten. 

More to the point...who am I to say this is wrong? Who am I to deny a population of just one day to truly, ultimately, and unquestionably believe in themselves? The idea of self-destruction...well, surely that's just one of those undefinable ideas that we have no choice but to label, rather like complaints, weather, and queues, as just part of being us. The complete British trait. 

C is for Comfort

'Comfort: To soothe, reassure, calm and sympathise. To relieve, ease, placate and console. To be cosy, to achieve contentment, to encourage' Oxford Dictionary

Comfort is one of those few essential parts of life that every person will, at some point, strive for. The idea of comfort has invaded every domain. It has, with all good intentions, become one of those categorical imperatives to modern-day life. This surely poses the question; has comfort been hierarchically placed above all else? How does one achieve said comfort without relinquishing all those other vital components of a so-called 'successful life'? The thought of the slightest restriction, be it physical, moral, or emotional is one that we as a society can no longer bear, and many of the details which were considered to be a mark of elegance and success some years ago are today condemned for reasons of comfort.

As like the large majority of the female race, my comfort stems from a variety of somewhat predictable sources. I look to my wardrobe; practically the only die-hards to resist the invasion of comfort are shoes, whose forms are still absurdly and absolutely to the contrary of good sense and, as a result, comfort. A dear friend of mine once revealed to me a recent purchase of obscene and, quite frankly, ridiculous shoes, shoes that were never created to be worn. They were works of art, whose only role was that of beauty, to be admired, to give their owner that true sense of not only femininity, but accomplishment. In their creation comfort was, as they say, ousted. This factor speaks volumes; is it a new route that should be discovered? Perhaps the mission of the fashion designs of tomorrow should be to form an alliance between comfort and elegance.

And yet, the more I think about it, the more I see the extensions of comfort. At first glance, there is a purely superficial aspect to it; comfort in a physical sense; comfort of warmth, of good food, of a ludicrous amount of chocolate on yet another Saturday night spent in front of yet more repetitive and predictable reality TV. But when I truly look at it, truly focus on what I crave for comfort, I am forced to evaluate not only myself as a person, but also my morals, my wishes, my reality.

I have recently finished reading the autobiographical book 'Eat, Pray, Love' by one Elizabeth Gilbert. Although in a less extreme sense, I could not help but relate to her, on so many varying levels. Based on a horrendous reaction to a complicated divorce, the book focuses on one woman's strife as she searches for her identity. Throughout the book, she looks to various different stimuli, with one ultimate aim: to find herself. To really and truly be at ease with ones-self. For her, this ease eventually came through philosophical and religious reassurance, but not before travelling the word, intricately exploring food, culture, occupations and men, all in hope of finding a significant gap in society in which she could remain. There was, of course, a happy ending for Ms Gilbert. But should we all have to go to such extremes to enable us to linger in quiet contentment? Or is it possible to just...be. To just be us. Be you...be me? One last question remains; are we comfortable as ourselves, or do we envy those around? Can we learn to walk, not in others', but in our own shoes? Is that, in fact, the definition and confirmation of comfort?