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Uploading pictures regularly to Flickr. |
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It is difficult to spend such a long time not measuring up to your own standards. It is difficult to spend such a long time not knowing how to resolve a question of this magnitude.
— July 5, 2004 |
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This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. — George Bernard Shaw
That is happiness; to be dissolved into something completely great. — Willa Cather
I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves. — Ludwig Wittgenstein |
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I can be reached at romanlily ~at~gmail.com. Or you can join the notify list here. |
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July 7, 2005
Update from the Existential Freakout Triage Center
Welcome to the close of Day 388 here in the Existential Freakout Triage Center. Things are still looking sketchy. But maybe sketchy is the way to go. Maybe sketchy is the best we can do right now.
I wouldn't mind, of course, having a slight sense of progress. Maybe if I could just resolve one or two little questions every month?....I'd settle for answers for simple questions, too. Why is it so very satisfying to pick up the dry cleaning? Is it worth paying $75 to have your hair highlighted? What is dark matter, really?
But for whatever reason, that doesn't seem to be happening.
I remember telling my father, back in January, about my plans to separate from my husband. This was a conversation I had long dreaded. I cried off and on throughout the talk. It was particularly hard because I couldn't tell him about my marriage stuff without telling him about my Catastrophe of Faith stuff (or the Existential Freakout stuff — whatever you want to call it — today the friendly dental hygenist politely suggested that maybe I was "...just having an early mid-life crisis?"). I remember the conversation with my father, him sitting there on the couch, me telling him that I just wasn't so sure about Christianity anymore, at least the particular brand of Christianity in which he had raised me. I remember him saying very gently and lovingly, in the manner of a man whose faith is steadfast and pretty much unshakeable, that he believes that the only way to true happiness is through a saving relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ.
I remember feeling a little rebuked at that moment, and also weirdly jealous of him — how clear and straightforward his answer was, how completely settled he was in his faith.
Do you inherit faith in your DNA? Are some people naturally certain in their faith, and others just born skeptics? Perhaps belief is a recessive gene.
I don't know why I wasn't able to get to that same place where my father was, after all my years of faithful churchgoing and camp-attending and singing and praying and tithing and potlucking.
I don't think it's because I wasn't trying hard enough.
The brand of Christianity in which I was raised does some things very well. When you ask my father about the purpose of life, he's got an Answer. It's a handy, satisfying answer — high concept, quickly expressed, easily communicated and understood.
But if you held an Existential Bake-Off today and asked me to explain in twenty words or less why I was placed here on earth, I'd be pretty much stumped.
And for whatever reason, it seems important, you know, to actually have an Answer. We humans in this turbulent age love something rock-solid, something unshakable. We love answers that alliterate, bullet points, mission statements for life that fold up into a little square and fit neatly in our pockets. Walking around without one these days, I feel a little unmoored, a little exposed, perhaps even a little dangerous.
So now I begin to form a question about the questions themselves: where the heck do they come from? Does their presence in my head and heart actually suggest the existence of a larger intellect, that elusive God figure? Can I write that proof down on a 3x5 card, can I put that in my pocket?
I do get a little burned out at the end of the day with my philosophical questions. But I'm glad to say that this isn't all about trudging through burning sand with no oasis. There are always little gifts along the way.
There are little moments in the morning where the sun comes through the sheer white curtain, and I can take my time with the day, waking up slowly.
There are conversations with new friends that stir old, forgotten parts of me back to life.
There are hidden blooms in the garden. Over the weekend I was over at Kevin and Lalah's. Kevin and I were laying paving stones in the back yard, and Lalah was clearing a forgotten patch of garden in the front yard. And she called out to us, said she found these tigerlilies out in the middle of a very dense patch of garden. There they were, blooming all by themselves. We might have never known they were there.
Now, granted, it's just a lily. Maybe a lily doesn't equal salvation in a teacup. It's not a twenty-word reason for being; I'm not going to snip that bloom and pin it to my lapel. But with The Great Existential Vacuum on the right, and the lily on the left, and me in the middle, give me the lily any day. It's enough.
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