Emotionally
speaking, I don't know which I find more frightening: feeling
entirely empty or overwhelmingly full. I suppose it depends a good
deal on with what I'm filled. On this particular occasion, I felt
both empty and full. Is that even possible? To feel completely full
up with more negative emotion than one can handle and to feel
completely empty in spite of it? Or, did I feel completely empty
because of it? All I know is that I wanted to cry.
Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm
really not much of a public crier. For the most part, I'm emotionally reserved (thanks, dad). So, some might find it surprising that my heart breaks quite easily; more and more as time goes by.
In truth, I'm considerably softhearted (shhh, don't tell). I get that universally
familiar lump in my throat and my eyes well up: when I think about my kids, when I
hear a particularly moving piece of music, when I feel God speaking
through something I read or hear or see, when I gaze at a powerful
photo or painting, when I witness an act of truly inspired
selflessness, when I think about cats. (I just want to hug them
all... or not.) Even
so, it's sometimes hard for me to cry. I don't mean it's difficult for me to
produce tears. I mean, I seldom truly weep.
I used
to think that meant there was something really wrong with me. I
envied the catharsis others appeared to find after a good, blubbery
breakdown. But, when I do cry, I don't generally feel better for it.
Perhaps it's a guy thing. Perhaps not. Either way, for me to say that
I wanted to cry is personally significant. I guess it might be
more accurate to say that I wanted something inside me to break. It
wouldn't. I longed for sorrow. I knew joy was too much to ask for and
I just wanted to feel something simple, something noble enough to
dispel the feelings of frustration and fear and anger and confusion
and helplessness that consumed me.
As I
spoke, my throat began to close and my mouth contorted, my neck
muscles tensed and my eyes clenched tightly... but alas, nothing. I
think I wanted it too badly. I was lost and repentant and hungry for change. I wanted to sit there before God a
salty, wet mess; a broken heap. It seemed appropriate. I didn't want to
present myself to him all hard and in matter-of-fact. That had to be wrong. But, I was tired in every way a person can be tired. I was
physically tired, emotionally tired, spiritually tired, and I was
tired of waiting for the soft, helpless, childlike desperation with
which you're supposed to approach God... yes? Unfortunately, I couldn't find my way there from
where I was. I gave up. I sat staring into the distance, no longer
trying to figure out from whence the courage to start my day might
come. Either it would come, or it wouldn't. That's all. I gave up.
A
stillness began to settle over me— a product of my resignation, no
doubt. It was nothing magical, but I was going to take whatever I
could get. I inhaled the cool air and looked up at the silhouette of
the pine trees around me. The sky was starting to change. A subtle
purple hue eased in to replace the blackness. It's actually quite
stunning how quickly our world changes from night into day. One minute it's as black as... well,
night. And, the next thing you know, light moves over the surface of
the earth like a welcome breeze that blows gently across your
sweat-damp skin on a hot summer day. But in those fleeting moments I
saw something I'd never seen before. The twinkling lights from the
city below, the same that had so starkly offset the darkness only a
breath or two ago, began to fade before my eyes. They weren't going
out. Not really. Still, little by little they became less and less
remarkable— another breath, and they were gone.
Now,
somewhere there was a power plant pumping raw electricity to
transformers that routed impressive amounts of voltage to homes and
streetlamps and signs and traffic signals all over the city. The
white hot filaments of millions of bulbs continued to burn with
passion. But, no matter how much energy coursed through these
manufactured luminaries, it was all to no avail. Absolutely
meaningless. God, one. Humanity, zero. No contest.
Dawn had
come. And, I knew then that it didn't really matter all that much if
I surrendered by choice, if I just gave up, or if I held on with a
vengeance. When dawn comes, all bets are off.
That was
a little over a year ago. How much and yet how little in my life has
changed. Just now, outside my study window, I watched the sun set
beyond the coastal ridge. The city below has come to life. The lights
dance, an amalgam of colors shimmering through the atmosphere
attempting to lure me into yet another catatonic gaze. I trust those
lights. I understand them. I know how to control them. They know how
to control me. They fill me up. It's what I want. And yet, I feel empty. Maybe it's because I know, somehow, that it's a manufactured reality. This doesn't make it any less "real." Still, illusions are almost always based in reality. That doesn't make them true. So, here's to the not-so-subtle difference! Fool
me once...