Drove home tonight at 9:30pm, daughter asleep in the back of the car. And the sky was still lit, darker than turquoise, and bluer but still more green than blue. We come up against things every day that cannot be said, or cannot be said with precision. And we rely on the fabric of our shared humanity, rely on the intuition or wisdom or insight of those around us to interpret what we say.
So cumbersome, words -- and "words" itself sounds so pedestrian, ordinary things like bent 10-penny nails -- perhaps exchangable, more likely not.
The two of us visited my father's grave site earlier today. My 4 year old (soon to be 5) wrestled with the idea that her "Poppy" was under the ground. "Can I dig down and see him?" (No, he's not really down there, only his body.) "But can I see him?" (He wouldn't be Poppy any more if you did.) "Who would he be?" (Indeed.)
I wish I could report at this point that I felt better, that I was coming to terms with his passing... But I'm not. I feel worse. I think more about my own health, my mortality. I am quicker to anger, less inspired to correct the unhealthy habits in my life. If there is a way to attack this, I do not see it. I feel quite passive in the face of it all. And the ephemeral nature of all that I do and have done in the days and years prior... is painful.
This is not right living because it is divorced from action. Something will have to yield. There ought to be a word for this waiting... waiting for something terrible or magnificent, possibly both, for something to rend the veil. Or else not, and I will diminish as my father before me has. The novels unwritten, the promise unfulfilled -- what will my little kindnesses mean against failure on that scale? Will they stack even so high as my transgressions? Or will even that be a matchstick cabin to set beside a matchstick shack? Yes or no.
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Years ago I lived in St. Petersburg, Florida. I had a spiritual mentor named Don. I was going through an unusually troubled and troubling stage of my life. Don helped me think through the myriad problems I was having. I took especial reassurance from him when he would listen to a new kink in my troubled life, affectionately pat me on the back, and assure me "this too shall pass."
It was a valuable lesson. I learned that the cure to most problems is simply time. With time I could gain perspective. With time the pain would ease.
But the most significant lesson Don ever taught me was when life started to turn around. One day I came to him in a celebratory mood. I had been admitted to graduate school and had been granted a stipend. My life had a new direction. The future looked especially bright. Don listened to the good news politely and then responded simply, "this too shall pass."
All the world's great religions assure us that true serenity is possible on this earth, but they also warn us that serenity requires a profound acceptance of impermanence.
First, a disclaimer. My religious affiliation is The Society of Friends. The Quaker in me is about to come out!
There are two kinds of agnostic. The second much more profound than the first. When the Theist declares "There is a God," and the Atheist declares "There is no God," the first agnostic says "I don't think we know enough to decide. The question of God is larger than us." But the second kind of agnostic has a more troubling position. He asks, "What do you mean by 'God'?"
(Quaker alert) All creeds are dangerous. Creeds are a failed attempt to parse the infinite. The distinction between orthodoxy and heterodoxy is by nature divisive. It also emphasizes adherence at the expense of experience. It mistakes belief for faith, intellect for understanding. But even more troubling is that creeds necessarily hide their own ontological assumptions.
When I hear The Apostle's Creed, "I believe in God the Father almighty," I ask, "What do we mean by 'God'?" "What do we mean by 'believe'?" and most frightening but also most liberating (and I hope relevant to your post), "Do we know what we mean by 'I'?"
I think we have all been down the dark road that you are on now, my friend. We will all be on it again.
I too have withered, contemplating life's eternal fleeting nature.
I have seen the fruit ripen till it weeps through its skin.
But this is my life. If it is to be but one, I pray to myself, I pray to my children that I will make it my own, that I will not be enslaved by my mortality, that I will leave my mark on others, though that mark too will pass just as Socrates, Shakespeare, and Lincoln, will fade from memory.
Even the dust will decay into entropy.
I cannot pretent to know what this life means. These days I take solace knowing I don't know.
Am I unthinking? Am I unaware? Am I living an unexamined life? Am I in denial?
I don't think so. I am a selfish lot. I don't think a day goes by when some part of me doesn't gasp -- like the wide-eyed fish on a hook -- for eternal life.
And then it hits me. Eternal life. Eternal. I think I'd eventually grow tired.
I will take this piece that is mine. I look at it and know that it never really was mine. It was a gift. It is a gift. No matter how tattered it becomes, no matter how beaten down. It is a gift.
I wish you peace, my friend. I wish I could give you peace and strength. I know that one day, I will call on you for some of yours.
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