Sunday, November 17, 2013

a light in the icebox window

You call me up again just to break me like a promise.
So casually cruel in the name of being honest.
--Miss Taylor Swift

The awe-ful thing about watching human beings onstage is that they are so atrociously easy to love.
Human beings onstage will drive you mad with their beauty, ineffable loveliness, vulnerability, passion, sense of mission and gorgeous expressiveness.
They are so open and emotive, it makes me want to cry.
Onstage, a human sparkles. When they sparkle, they inevitably succeed in dragging me into their beautiful story.
I cannot help but fall in love with them.

Young people are always searching for the beauty in love.
-John Paul II

If you ever declare that you are in love, you should beware.
Because the beloved will instantly make you prove that your money is, in the common parlance, where your big mouth is.
You will proclaim that you could not possibly love them more.
That is probably the definition of foolhardy.

Just when you find yourself at rest, at peace, you are thrown into the sweetest of storms, a mad, delightful unrest of being stretched to love more than you thought possible.
On Wednesday, around 2:45pm, but perhaps a little bit after, or maybe a moment before, I felt a surge of restlessness shake my very bones.
The tectonic plates of my heart were shifted and rustled around by a gentle 2.0 Richter magnitude scale force.
Gentle, but insistent.  
Suddenly, the soles of my feet felt itchy; my heart felt upside down, words I could never say wound themselves up in my brain, but refused to make their way to my tongue.
I was inundated by a tsunami of wanderlust; caught up in a storm of discontent; and yet no moment was sweeter than the sunlight Wednesday afternoon in which I was sitting.
In the tempestuous seas of my inner world, I alighted on a sandbar of calm.
I dug my feet in, to settle in there.
Then, pulled by a cascade, a torrent, a tsunami of words, I found myself back in the rough seas, the sandbar completely washed under the water.

When one finds oneself washed out to sea into stormy waters, the only sensible thing to do is to arm oneself with hot chocolate, and go on a walk with a friend.
We found a bench and looked across the lake, it's blue water so clear and vibrant it hurt my eyes.
Sitting on that bench, sipping hot chocolate, the sun streaming behind us, we both discovered clarity.
The seas did not grow less stormy, the waters' roughness did not abate, but somehow, the light shone a little bit clearer.

God gave us chocolate and the Eucharist, and that's really all we need to be happy, I suppose. 
And also, I guess, people to share them with.

Everything was quite normal in my little office.
The skylight was shining, the conference rooms were humming, and the snack bar was fully stocked.
From the rotunda, the glorious rotunda, came a plaintive intonation.
A man was singing the "Kyrie" of the Mass of the Angels.
Sometimes, my feet go places without thinking.
Like when they start walking towards the Grotto, like when they walk down a sidewalk and run into the right person, like when they jumped out of my chair without another thought, and ran to the balcony.
I looked down, and saw the man crying out, in the most gorgeous of tones, for the Lord to have mercy on us all.
It is not common for someone to cry out to the Lord to have mercy during a Thursday afternoon at the office.
But, perhaps it ought to be.
I looked over the balcony, the entire rotunda, from the painted mural on the rounded ceiling to the sparkling mosaic floor at the bottom, was caught up in iridescent afternoon sunlight.
Joy, echoed in the melancholic tones of the man's song, was in the air.

Joy is a shout of affirmation that no matter how much suffering there is in the world, it was good that I was here.
--Professor Cyril O'Regan

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