Thursday, March 22, 2018

sandy hearts

"Do you ask more of him?"

December, no snow but bitter.
Watery, glorified home brews.
Incisive question from an insightful friend.

My heartbeat’s rapped out the rhythm of that scene consistently throughout these winter months now breaching into spring.
How did I answer then?
How would I answer now?
"I do."

I feel a sudden surge of dependency pulling me out of myself. The dis-orientation of attraction sets our stakes in sandy, sandy ground. We cast our lots onto a shifting foundation of a person who cannot hold our house. I note that attraction points—indicates, if I will read the signs—towards the roaring lack at my core, papered over each day by activity. Boxed out into colorful quilted squares of interwoven commitments, Google Calendars ward off existential loneliness—there’s not enough space in the schedule today to feel empty so what does next week look like for you?

Enter love—or even the first inklings of movement towards this incandescent other on the horizon or radiating at the fringes of each day’s landscape, a tortuously nascent eros—who shatters those illusions, revealing how many moments in one’s day rattle with the hollow sound of self, open for the taking. Besides the ones spent truly praying, or caught up in the creative flow of writing with no blocks, or rapt in conversation with either dear friends of the flesh or page—when reading turns into that inspired project of connecting dots of thoughts, transforming words into stars, sentences become constellations—outside of these precious hours of in-spiration, when we truly dwell in the spirit and with our neighbor, there are too many hours in a week which echo with just the hollow cavern of my ego, stuffed with self. Existence is a vacuum, a gaping cavern, empty womb, waiting on the precious moment when the long-awaited and oh-so-expected visitor arrives. Life is lived in that hush before the doorbell.

Someone rings—or knocks—or the neighbor’s wind-chime rills, and I am suddenly tumbling towards the door, begging welcome to whatever thief or angel stands poised to enter. All the space which is just self is so anxious for a Thou to ground it, mold it, become its longed-for First Principle.

One night, last year, I fell asleep in the midst of a pea-soup-thick fog of depression and wondered if life had any meaning. I knew in an instant that if I were in love it certainly would. One instant later, I knew that being "in love" could never quite hold the answer. What a stupid tragedy to be a creature made for communion, designed to open up and welcome some lovely other wantonly, wildly, and fearlessly, in a bold generosity that counts neither cost nor gain, but doomed to have that desire always frustrated or disappointed—or, worse still corrupted—by the beautifully tangible, radiantly visible flesh-and-blood others who populate our days on earth. The very uniqueness which draws us to them will, in the end, be the very fact which leads to our resenting them. They can never, in their gorgeous particularity, satisfy that one universal hunger, the permanent yearning which forms our shape.

I write this in the sunshine of 6pm, an undeniable and indubitably welcome herald of spring which floods into the March basilica as she settles into the hum of a post-liturgy lull. I have just received on my tongue a god in bread and wine, who even now fills the gaping abyss, of not my bottomless-pit stomach, but of my heart. I am an endless craving who has found the shape of my own yearning in this small host who I, the guest, welcome in.

I am nothing more than one red-hot string of unquenchable desire, constantly burning.
And I am met in that.

No comments:

Post a Comment