When I look at my things, I can trace the arch of my desires. I can remember why I asked my mother for a typewriter, because I wanted to write a novel. I still have small dusty jars of model paint from when I was a child building model ships. I have the same paint brushes I've had since college. I have twelve notebooks with songs, poems, and journal entries written from long forgotten days. I have a print in a heavy wooden frame of a picture of Colonel Pershing standing next to Pancho Villa that I bought in Baja, Mexico. I've bought a guitar, a jump rope, leather bound journals, paints and canvasses, and a mountain bike. All these things I've bought while trying to reconcile myself with this modern world. There are three types of people in the world, those who are obsessed with the past, those who live solely in the present, and those who spend their lives preparing for the future. For me, the past has weighed heavily. Most of the things I had to let go of were little totems from places I've been and things I've seen. These things were to be a part of some great collage so I could surround myself with memories, enshroud myself in the blanket of the past. When I buy a guitar, I am trying to rejoin the present... learn something new. When I buy a calligraphy pen set it's so I can become something new, be present. When I buy new clothes, I'm trying to drag myself out of the old ways, to keep pace with these manic times. It's amusing to think of the ways in which we love our little things. We spend our life buying things that are useful, things that are for decoration, and things that serve no purpose whatsoever, then we carry them with us for our whole lives. To me, it's not that hard to imagine being a hoarder. We all have the same feelings within us to a certain degree. Try throwing something you've had for a time in the trash can. Something you have sitting in a display case. You'll find it a daunting task and you might just pick it out and clean it up and put it back on the shelf. It's become instinct to love the miscellaneous tack we gather around ourselves. Letting go of it is like losing an arm. Carlos Castaneda wrote that small totems were infused with the magic of their previous owners. In a very real sense the things we hold onto become our captors, become like prison bars, sitting in front of us, needing constant maintenance and care, travelling with us through our lives. When I moved in with Anna, I finally looked at all the loose things I've carried with me since olden times and realized that I would never use them. I thought I would finally end up in a place where I could raise them from the dustbin, resurrect them in sacred ceremony, and place them on the altar of memory. But now I realize this will never happen. Thanks to this new life I've entered, I know that in order to adorn myself in the past, I would have to sacrifice the present. Each second wasted on such a project, although justifiable, would only be selfish and overtly personal. I might be able to bask in the glow of a wall full of old posters, fliers, pictures, and bumper stickers, but I would be alone. The modern world is so much more interesting, and the things I've collected, although a bridge to the past, to who I am, are outdated and irrelevant.
Last week Anna set up an appointment at Macy's in order to begin the process of registering for our wedding. We went to the mall on a frigid January night and rode the escalator up to the second floor and entered a seductive world of young couples, well dressed saleswomen, a DJ, and delicious pastries. Without any idea of how to go about collecting new things, we began walking through a vast landscape of china plates, crystal glasses, silverware, kitchen appliances, home wares, bedding, electronic devices, and vacuum cleaners... after an hour I was reeling. It was overwhelming and when it was over we had only registered for four items. Anna was already planning to go to several other places so she didn't want to commit to a large number of things at one store unless she found something better elsewhere so we walked away unfulfilled. For Anna, registering for gifts is the last great opportunity to collect the material goods to build our life together. Like a contractor ordering lumber, cinder blocks, cement, and tools, she goes about the business of constructing a new world for us with aplomb and confidence. She knows what she wants and she knows how to shop. I'm the perfect sucker for the retail world. I see shiny things and I shell out the money like a child at a carnival trying to throw a dart at a balloon. I know too these things she is buying will replace all the old things I have. But I'm fine with that. I think it's time to let go of my material world, the world of concrete functionality. I will probably hold on to things such as my stereo, books, CD's and DVD's, and the artistic things that I want to explore, but the rest is just gathering dust and I've grown tired of boxing myself in, tired of the avalanche of worldly possessions. The past will always be there, like a museum I can visit anytime. Blessed memory returns so fluidly when it's shared with old friends, is so much more true and real when sitting around with people. I can't really trust myself with those times when I look at an old picture, and it's fairly unfulfilling as well. The future will be taken care of by my future wife, so knowledgeable, so adept at thinking of such things. That leaves the present wide open. Until we meet again...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
January 21,2012: Animal Signs
Winter, like an old friend, sweeps down on the northern country, blanketing us... teaching us about the holy circle of birth, growth, life, and death. Each breath is like a reminder of the ghosts surrounding us, each gust of wind howls across plains of brilliant white, bespeckled with black sod. I revel in the snow storms as I walk through the hushed streets. Each auto blissfully muted, each train accenting the chiming tree branches. In these dark mornings I take a few minutes, in church parking lots, and lift my head from my chest, breathe in icy air, and watch the snow cover the grime of this sullen town.
Animals are all around, life carries on in darts and flashes, fleeing the shadows and chasing the sunlight. The nightly crow, the industrious squirrel, and the proud seagull brace against the wind. The shock of the cardinal is the most pleasing, with his regal crown and black mask, flitting in between the grey-brown undergrowth. That seductive red seems like fire, like cherries, like velvet blankets against the monotone backdrop. The blue jay tries but can't match that passion. Cats and racoons scurry around houses, ever vigilant for a meal and a hiding place. Occasionally the feminine deer, like a ballerina, dances through the back lots and farm fields, pausing to stare in wonder at me, then dash away with the others as they dig under the ice to find grassy shoots. Huskies, at home in this clime, dusted with powdery snow, smile at me as I pass, as if greeting me like a neighbor.
There are times, in the country, when I see red tailed hawks. I sometimes wonder if there isn't just one hawk, a spirit guide, leading me through my day. Usually He is sitting atop a telephone pole, but at times He hangs in the air, ever subtlely shifting his tail and wings to remain perfectly still on a draft, reveling in the joy of wind and air. Once, while I was driving on one of my routes, pulling from one driveway to the next, a hawk waited for me to commence my ride to the next house, and fly to the next pole in front of me. I felt blessed and wondered at the great power of this bird of prey. I felt like I was playing a privileged role in a game of chase, and when it was over I felt a small pang of regret.
The strangest occasion happened a few winters ago. I was driving out Walbridge Road, towards those little, old, trading post towns of Curtice and Williston. Out there the farm land comes in patchwork quilts divided by punctuated stands of tangled trees. The land was dug out of old marshes and swamps, dug out by old Germans and Irish, reclaimed from ancient lake beds. The land is flat and the soil black with rich silt and nutrients, and it has been left to the heirs to those old Germans, left by the people of the ports and cities as gratitude for the ditch diggers and reclamation engineers. It was in one of these hollows, on a patch of road drifting with snow, in between tree stands, that I encountered a coyote for the first time. In the high desert country of Southern Idaho, along the Snake River Basin, I heard packs of coyotes singing at night, out along the vast reaches of fenceline and scrub. But even in that wild country they were notoriously fickle. Like a flash of light in the corner of my eye I would think I saw one only to find whispers. I couldn't imagine for a second that there were still coyotes in this old part of the world. Surely man has plodded upon this old ground for too long, taken too much away, and cut himself off completely for such a wild thing to still roam free? Wonders never cease. Out of the corner of my eye I saw this brilliant grey-black flash, darting toward my car like a bullet train! He was on a direct collision course with me and all I could do at forty five miles per hour was take my foot off the gas pedal. The wild dog closed in on the car, leapt across an eight foot wide ditch, and dashed in front of my car, across the other ditch, and onto the next field! It slowed down like an Olympic runner, shook his head and looked back at me. I was stunned! It was a game of chicken, good sport! Some old coyote trickster god reminding me that there is still play to be had, still wild life to be lived, and there are things we must do for no rhyme or reason.
What is the lesson? There is none. These animals aren't here for us. They are here, and we tread upon their grounds, impositioning ourselves, labeling them with our problems. They are, and we are not. That coyote was showing me something, though... That old dog was proving how strong he was to himself and to me, and I loved him for it! Until we meet again...
Animals are all around, life carries on in darts and flashes, fleeing the shadows and chasing the sunlight. The nightly crow, the industrious squirrel, and the proud seagull brace against the wind. The shock of the cardinal is the most pleasing, with his regal crown and black mask, flitting in between the grey-brown undergrowth. That seductive red seems like fire, like cherries, like velvet blankets against the monotone backdrop. The blue jay tries but can't match that passion. Cats and racoons scurry around houses, ever vigilant for a meal and a hiding place. Occasionally the feminine deer, like a ballerina, dances through the back lots and farm fields, pausing to stare in wonder at me, then dash away with the others as they dig under the ice to find grassy shoots. Huskies, at home in this clime, dusted with powdery snow, smile at me as I pass, as if greeting me like a neighbor.
There are times, in the country, when I see red tailed hawks. I sometimes wonder if there isn't just one hawk, a spirit guide, leading me through my day. Usually He is sitting atop a telephone pole, but at times He hangs in the air, ever subtlely shifting his tail and wings to remain perfectly still on a draft, reveling in the joy of wind and air. Once, while I was driving on one of my routes, pulling from one driveway to the next, a hawk waited for me to commence my ride to the next house, and fly to the next pole in front of me. I felt blessed and wondered at the great power of this bird of prey. I felt like I was playing a privileged role in a game of chase, and when it was over I felt a small pang of regret.
The strangest occasion happened a few winters ago. I was driving out Walbridge Road, towards those little, old, trading post towns of Curtice and Williston. Out there the farm land comes in patchwork quilts divided by punctuated stands of tangled trees. The land was dug out of old marshes and swamps, dug out by old Germans and Irish, reclaimed from ancient lake beds. The land is flat and the soil black with rich silt and nutrients, and it has been left to the heirs to those old Germans, left by the people of the ports and cities as gratitude for the ditch diggers and reclamation engineers. It was in one of these hollows, on a patch of road drifting with snow, in between tree stands, that I encountered a coyote for the first time. In the high desert country of Southern Idaho, along the Snake River Basin, I heard packs of coyotes singing at night, out along the vast reaches of fenceline and scrub. But even in that wild country they were notoriously fickle. Like a flash of light in the corner of my eye I would think I saw one only to find whispers. I couldn't imagine for a second that there were still coyotes in this old part of the world. Surely man has plodded upon this old ground for too long, taken too much away, and cut himself off completely for such a wild thing to still roam free? Wonders never cease. Out of the corner of my eye I saw this brilliant grey-black flash, darting toward my car like a bullet train! He was on a direct collision course with me and all I could do at forty five miles per hour was take my foot off the gas pedal. The wild dog closed in on the car, leapt across an eight foot wide ditch, and dashed in front of my car, across the other ditch, and onto the next field! It slowed down like an Olympic runner, shook his head and looked back at me. I was stunned! It was a game of chicken, good sport! Some old coyote trickster god reminding me that there is still play to be had, still wild life to be lived, and there are things we must do for no rhyme or reason.
What is the lesson? There is none. These animals aren't here for us. They are here, and we tread upon their grounds, impositioning ourselves, labeling them with our problems. They are, and we are not. That coyote was showing me something, though... That old dog was proving how strong he was to himself and to me, and I loved him for it! Until we meet again...
Monday, January 16, 2012
January 16, 2012: Tree of Knowledge
January 16, 2012: Tree of Knowledge
Genesis 3:5 "No. God knows well that the moment you eat of it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods who know what is good and what is bad."
My job, though physically strenuous, affords me enough time and quiet to drift through my thoughts and daydream. A meter reader has to pay attention to what he's doing at brief moments of the day, opening a fence, entering a backyard, greeting the homeowner, avoiding the pitfalls of frozen ground and mud... but these things have become such habit and ritual that I'm afforded the pleasure of examining all that I know. After nearly a decade of working at this job, and around four years on the same routes, I can probably trace my footsteps by rote. I've worn a groove into the lawns of Perrysburg, Rossford, Oregon, Walbridge, and Genoa. When the deep snows of winter linger for more than a month I can see the ghost of my footprints from before, like those old Roman roads with wide, smooth wagon wheel ruts polished into the cobblestones from ages ago.
The days drift past me mostly. Time is measured in distances in between houses and through neighborhoods. I break halfway through the day to eat a lunch in my car and listen to NPR, then float through the rest of the afternoon thinking about afternoons in the winter and how people will be coming home and the sun will be sinking low. Fridays and Mondays pass by without fanfare and we all age without even knowing it. But in that time, I learn things and I feel the world around me. I think about the truths behind the truths and I think about all the things that we have come to know. Knowledge, in the early days, was beautifully simple. There were good acts, there were acts that went against the good of the community, God was in his heaven and we dug the plow in the dirt after it thawed. We drank from the river, we played games with our children that taught them how to live, we watched the women laugh over the animal hides, and we were wary of strangers. It's not a surprise that we long for the lost old simple ages.
This is a postmodern world. Post Freud, Marx, Darwin, and God. We have eaten the fruit from the tree and we can see the bad and the good in ourselves... at least some of us can. We know many things now. We know that the whole universe is in motion, and filled with things we can only see the shadows of. We know that the lights we see in the night sky may be the light from stars that have died long ago, like the howl of a wolf that lived in the time of the conquistadors reaching our ears today. We know that the eternal sun, the same sun that shone on old Egypt, on the knights of Medieval England, and which will shine on children not yet born to us, will eventually consume itself and this little oasis of life. We know that the ground we stand on, which has afforded us a safe place to lay upon since we could first stand tall, is hard cold crust laying precariously on a vast swirling mass of liquid. We know that if we look at each other, and keep looking ever closer and closer, we will disappear and vast spaces will open up where once there was a sentient being. It is in a world like this that we are supposed to live and be happy.
Is it any wonder that we're all chasing spirituality and philosophies? Is it hard to believe that we clash with each other in our search for a true life? What is the question that we're trying to find an answer to? We analyze and we fret... we drift from book to painting to dance to craft thinking that we're getting closer and closer... desperate to tell our loved ones that we're on the path to righteousness! Then we fall breathless into our beds, dream anxious dreams, awake to our pills and carry on the fight. It is a psychic morass, this life. With so many people in the world we have to claw our way to meaning, shove our way through the crowds, shout to be heard, and try not to drown in the quicksand. Do I sound like I have an answer? Am I being a bit macabre? Probably. Make no mistake, I am an optimist. I can see the old answer is still the perfect answer... love will keep us together.
After a century of Freudian analysis, of Gallup polls, of sociology and anthropology, of Marxian historical reductionism, of deconstruction and abstraction, of new wave neo-pathology, particle physics and fractal geometry, have we found the final thesis, or are we compounding silken threads on top of one another in an ever increasing web? What does it mean to know? To me it is a bit of a laugh. It is a wonder how our mind works. It is a pleasure to discover new things. I don't subscribe to the notion "What good does this knowledge for us?" I'm no pragmatist. I think the more we think about the world we inhabit the better we can make it. But to love is to make everything simple again... to work for happiness for each other's sake, and to give comfort in an ever increasing uncomfortable world. Until we meet again...
Genesis 3:5 "No. God knows well that the moment you eat of it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods who know what is good and what is bad."
My job, though physically strenuous, affords me enough time and quiet to drift through my thoughts and daydream. A meter reader has to pay attention to what he's doing at brief moments of the day, opening a fence, entering a backyard, greeting the homeowner, avoiding the pitfalls of frozen ground and mud... but these things have become such habit and ritual that I'm afforded the pleasure of examining all that I know. After nearly a decade of working at this job, and around four years on the same routes, I can probably trace my footsteps by rote. I've worn a groove into the lawns of Perrysburg, Rossford, Oregon, Walbridge, and Genoa. When the deep snows of winter linger for more than a month I can see the ghost of my footprints from before, like those old Roman roads with wide, smooth wagon wheel ruts polished into the cobblestones from ages ago.
The days drift past me mostly. Time is measured in distances in between houses and through neighborhoods. I break halfway through the day to eat a lunch in my car and listen to NPR, then float through the rest of the afternoon thinking about afternoons in the winter and how people will be coming home and the sun will be sinking low. Fridays and Mondays pass by without fanfare and we all age without even knowing it. But in that time, I learn things and I feel the world around me. I think about the truths behind the truths and I think about all the things that we have come to know. Knowledge, in the early days, was beautifully simple. There were good acts, there were acts that went against the good of the community, God was in his heaven and we dug the plow in the dirt after it thawed. We drank from the river, we played games with our children that taught them how to live, we watched the women laugh over the animal hides, and we were wary of strangers. It's not a surprise that we long for the lost old simple ages.
This is a postmodern world. Post Freud, Marx, Darwin, and God. We have eaten the fruit from the tree and we can see the bad and the good in ourselves... at least some of us can. We know many things now. We know that the whole universe is in motion, and filled with things we can only see the shadows of. We know that the lights we see in the night sky may be the light from stars that have died long ago, like the howl of a wolf that lived in the time of the conquistadors reaching our ears today. We know that the eternal sun, the same sun that shone on old Egypt, on the knights of Medieval England, and which will shine on children not yet born to us, will eventually consume itself and this little oasis of life. We know that the ground we stand on, which has afforded us a safe place to lay upon since we could first stand tall, is hard cold crust laying precariously on a vast swirling mass of liquid. We know that if we look at each other, and keep looking ever closer and closer, we will disappear and vast spaces will open up where once there was a sentient being. It is in a world like this that we are supposed to live and be happy.
Is it any wonder that we're all chasing spirituality and philosophies? Is it hard to believe that we clash with each other in our search for a true life? What is the question that we're trying to find an answer to? We analyze and we fret... we drift from book to painting to dance to craft thinking that we're getting closer and closer... desperate to tell our loved ones that we're on the path to righteousness! Then we fall breathless into our beds, dream anxious dreams, awake to our pills and carry on the fight. It is a psychic morass, this life. With so many people in the world we have to claw our way to meaning, shove our way through the crowds, shout to be heard, and try not to drown in the quicksand. Do I sound like I have an answer? Am I being a bit macabre? Probably. Make no mistake, I am an optimist. I can see the old answer is still the perfect answer... love will keep us together.
After a century of Freudian analysis, of Gallup polls, of sociology and anthropology, of Marxian historical reductionism, of deconstruction and abstraction, of new wave neo-pathology, particle physics and fractal geometry, have we found the final thesis, or are we compounding silken threads on top of one another in an ever increasing web? What does it mean to know? To me it is a bit of a laugh. It is a wonder how our mind works. It is a pleasure to discover new things. I don't subscribe to the notion "What good does this knowledge for us?" I'm no pragmatist. I think the more we think about the world we inhabit the better we can make it. But to love is to make everything simple again... to work for happiness for each other's sake, and to give comfort in an ever increasing uncomfortable world. Until we meet again...
Thursday, January 12, 2012
January 12, 2012 New World
I was struck recently by an image I read in a book called, "How the Irish Saved the West". In the book the author describes a bizarre and almost incomprehensible occurrance in medieval Ireland. Individual monks, of their own volition and under the spell of religious fervor, would construct small rafts (yerts, perhaps?), pack a few days worth of food, and set themselves afloat on the vast unknown Ocean. These solitary men, these devoted souls, these men of knowledge and contemplation, these children of God, decided they would set their corporal body into the hands of the Almighty so that he might place them in the spot He wanted them to be. They would either perish and be enfolded in His warm embrace, find new land where they would build a place of worship and spend the rest of their lives praising His Glory, or find other people to whom they would teach the word of God.
A striking image indeed. I of course would love to think of myself on those high seas, sitting cross legged in the center of a small circular raft made of wood and lamb skin, tied together with rabbit sinew and pitch, praying desperately as the waves lash at my crusted lips. As I swim out past the breaking waters, smiling in my profound belief that this is where the arc of my life has led, I would look back and see my brothers blessing me and raising their thankful arms to the Father. How bold a thing to do! How fearful they must have been in the days leading up to this sea march. How sure they would have to be that the Lord not only exists... but cares enough about each individual that He would carry them to their destination. In many ways they had to be a bit carefree... either they would find a new home where they would spend the rest of their days living under God's sun, on God's untrod earth, in God's grace, or they would cast off their old tired bones, be washed clean of the dirt, and sink into the arms of the next Golden World. There was no indecision, no hesitance, only pure devotion.
If I was a good man, a true man, I would use this story as an analogy to describe my life, and especially my adult life. The idea of the world of men as an ocean and my singularity as a raft on that uncaring expanse is a seductive one. We could all be described as lone figures being blown about by winds of fortune, and all our encounters are but brief halloos in the cold Atlantic night. But upon further investigation, either the analogy falls short, or my true life falls short of the analogy. To say which is pointless. In order to set oneself adrift, one has to have FAITH in that endeavor. One has to DECIDE to go. Those old Celtic monks sat on that raft for days upon days, sleeping, waking, praying, sleeping, until there was no return. At what point did they stand up and realize the truth of their endeavor? What was the moment like, in a.d. 1200, when Brother Christian found himself in the North Sea, near delirium, ranting the Lord's Prayer until the words became all one? I like to think at this point Brother Christian, like a clap of thunder, found himself floating above himself, looking down at the wonder of his own breath, and laughter came washing over him like white light.
For me, there was no decision and no test. The great arc of my life has been more like a flat line leading steadily onward, with no deviation, through the great wide passageway of the middle, with a vague hint of the end that awaits us all. Fear has kept me from living a good life... fear of trying and failing, fear of looking foolish, fear of nameless powers around me like government, terrorism, society, damnation. I created a comfortable prison of couches, TVs, food, drugs and alcohol, and longing. As I sit here, now 38 years old, now 217 pounds, now high cholesterol, now aching bones and joints, now still unhappy, I can see that there was no effort, no motivation, no belief, no heart. As I sit here I feel the days slipping by with still no raft built. I truly feel left behind by life, like I never really got started. To be even more honest, life was going on all around me, but I never engaged it. I've watched my friends all get married and have children, get great jobs that they love, move away, my parents get old, and my family drift slowly apart, making their own families. I've clung desperately to the past, covering my youth in a golden gauze until the truth of those days is unfamiliar, and I can't trust my own memory. I know, however, that I must cast off these sentimentalities and embrace the present, because to do so is to live, and I want to live.
This year is 2012. There is a strange convergence going on and I've felt the soft stirrings of life within me. My father, bless his soul, has been ravaged by Alzheimer's disease, and we've sadly had to place him in a home. This has broken my mom's heart and my own, but I've learned one more valuable lesson from my old man... life is short, and a happy death is no guarantee. I consider this year to be year 1, and I want to catalogue it because there are many things that I want to do, many things I want to say, and some strange things will be happening throughout this year that I feel are all in some way related. There is no doubt, at least I feel there is no doubt, that we are all dancing together on these vast plains, that we are all still a great community, albeit a community of tribes, and as a man who has learned much about our past, I am full of optimism for this great time we live in. After all, if this is the peak of our civilization, why aren't we enjoying it more? I've been intrigued about the predictions of the end of the world by Nostradamus and the end of the last cycle of the Mayan calender. Movies about alien invasions, demonic possessions, and machine revolutions are on the rise. It seems we've become obsessed with old gods and old myths, trying to find the answers to age old questions about the end of time. It seems so appropriate that the end of the world coincides with my forthcoming wedding. I hate to use the word ironic because frankly, I don't know what that word means anymore, but it's absolutely fitting that after 37 years of solitude, the year I get married will usher in the end of days.
I'm going to try my best to not ask so many questions, at least not ones that I can't answer. I consider these posts to be a series of my own personal essays, to be my own rafts, and I hope that you can see yourselves in them because despite the medium... we all need to reconnect with each other, to gain wisdom and find love again. Until we meet again...
A striking image indeed. I of course would love to think of myself on those high seas, sitting cross legged in the center of a small circular raft made of wood and lamb skin, tied together with rabbit sinew and pitch, praying desperately as the waves lash at my crusted lips. As I swim out past the breaking waters, smiling in my profound belief that this is where the arc of my life has led, I would look back and see my brothers blessing me and raising their thankful arms to the Father. How bold a thing to do! How fearful they must have been in the days leading up to this sea march. How sure they would have to be that the Lord not only exists... but cares enough about each individual that He would carry them to their destination. In many ways they had to be a bit carefree... either they would find a new home where they would spend the rest of their days living under God's sun, on God's untrod earth, in God's grace, or they would cast off their old tired bones, be washed clean of the dirt, and sink into the arms of the next Golden World. There was no indecision, no hesitance, only pure devotion.
If I was a good man, a true man, I would use this story as an analogy to describe my life, and especially my adult life. The idea of the world of men as an ocean and my singularity as a raft on that uncaring expanse is a seductive one. We could all be described as lone figures being blown about by winds of fortune, and all our encounters are but brief halloos in the cold Atlantic night. But upon further investigation, either the analogy falls short, or my true life falls short of the analogy. To say which is pointless. In order to set oneself adrift, one has to have FAITH in that endeavor. One has to DECIDE to go. Those old Celtic monks sat on that raft for days upon days, sleeping, waking, praying, sleeping, until there was no return. At what point did they stand up and realize the truth of their endeavor? What was the moment like, in a.d. 1200, when Brother Christian found himself in the North Sea, near delirium, ranting the Lord's Prayer until the words became all one? I like to think at this point Brother Christian, like a clap of thunder, found himself floating above himself, looking down at the wonder of his own breath, and laughter came washing over him like white light.
For me, there was no decision and no test. The great arc of my life has been more like a flat line leading steadily onward, with no deviation, through the great wide passageway of the middle, with a vague hint of the end that awaits us all. Fear has kept me from living a good life... fear of trying and failing, fear of looking foolish, fear of nameless powers around me like government, terrorism, society, damnation. I created a comfortable prison of couches, TVs, food, drugs and alcohol, and longing. As I sit here, now 38 years old, now 217 pounds, now high cholesterol, now aching bones and joints, now still unhappy, I can see that there was no effort, no motivation, no belief, no heart. As I sit here I feel the days slipping by with still no raft built. I truly feel left behind by life, like I never really got started. To be even more honest, life was going on all around me, but I never engaged it. I've watched my friends all get married and have children, get great jobs that they love, move away, my parents get old, and my family drift slowly apart, making their own families. I've clung desperately to the past, covering my youth in a golden gauze until the truth of those days is unfamiliar, and I can't trust my own memory. I know, however, that I must cast off these sentimentalities and embrace the present, because to do so is to live, and I want to live.
This year is 2012. There is a strange convergence going on and I've felt the soft stirrings of life within me. My father, bless his soul, has been ravaged by Alzheimer's disease, and we've sadly had to place him in a home. This has broken my mom's heart and my own, but I've learned one more valuable lesson from my old man... life is short, and a happy death is no guarantee. I consider this year to be year 1, and I want to catalogue it because there are many things that I want to do, many things I want to say, and some strange things will be happening throughout this year that I feel are all in some way related. There is no doubt, at least I feel there is no doubt, that we are all dancing together on these vast plains, that we are all still a great community, albeit a community of tribes, and as a man who has learned much about our past, I am full of optimism for this great time we live in. After all, if this is the peak of our civilization, why aren't we enjoying it more? I've been intrigued about the predictions of the end of the world by Nostradamus and the end of the last cycle of the Mayan calender. Movies about alien invasions, demonic possessions, and machine revolutions are on the rise. It seems we've become obsessed with old gods and old myths, trying to find the answers to age old questions about the end of time. It seems so appropriate that the end of the world coincides with my forthcoming wedding. I hate to use the word ironic because frankly, I don't know what that word means anymore, but it's absolutely fitting that after 37 years of solitude, the year I get married will usher in the end of days.
I'm going to try my best to not ask so many questions, at least not ones that I can't answer. I consider these posts to be a series of my own personal essays, to be my own rafts, and I hope that you can see yourselves in them because despite the medium... we all need to reconnect with each other, to gain wisdom and find love again. Until we meet again...
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