Monday, June 11, 2018

interior design

My photographs were supposed to be developed at the drug store by today, and yet the drug store has not called me.

I am impatient for these photographs. Having digital pictures has made me forget the fragility of film. What if some disaster befalls to these images? What if an incompetent employee ruins the negatives or misplaces the results? I want to see the results—I have some inkling of what they will look like, but I am not yet sure. I wonder how the remembered moment will translate to film. I have faith that they will arrive, and yet it is hard to wait.

I go for a run. It has been a very long time since I ran, and I am scared, as my feet begin to move across the pavement in a way which is foreign because it was formerly so familiar, and to be reminded of its familiarity is to be reminded of its loss, that my knees will grind to a halt underneath me.

But they do not.

I run into the forest where I wrote my first poem, and found my first God. As I run, I sort through, in my head, the threads of feelings, responsibilities, loves, desires, dreams and plans. It is data that is mostly tangled into knot and I feel incapably of following the line to its end.

Suddenly, in the midst of rain, in the midst of what seems immobile, inert, stagnant, it seems to me that a path at my feet opens, and all that is left is freedom.

To be in a state of uncertainty, a liminal state between jobs, between homes, between places—to be, simply, in the in-between season—is not comfortable. It is uncomfortable, and yet it has been strangely freeing.

There is no identity to hang myself on other than simply my own name, and the relationships that give it shape. As I seek to remain myself in the midst of a transition which could assail my sense of self, where I find my solace becomes revealing. Where do I run, I ask, to continue maintaining my identity? No longer living into a job description, which comes with a set series of tasks, I am left to form my own routine (ubiquitous in my former lives, yet woven into a lot of extraneous tasks, which muddle, perhaps, its own clarity), and discover what is vital to remaining—or developing—who I am.

Who are the wells I draw from when my charity runs low? I continue, Who are the fortresses from which I launch my advance of love? Who and where are my dining room tables? No longer surrounded with accidental mentors or happenstance sharers-of-life, my heart teaches me who I can lean on, lacking a serendipitous supply of supports in the day-to-day.

To discover oneself, to discover what relationships demand of you, given the patience and time to live into them, is a rare gift.

And I wonder, as I wait upon and live into the daily developments of both my photographs and my story, what will appear.

At the end of the run, this realization of freedom strikes me with the sudden shock of instinct. As I seek to argue my way forward, pick open these knots with intellection, it suddenly appears as though all exegetical restrictions will be removed—relativized—until the only exigent necessity that remains is the will of God. The only compass point is what begins to be, and the only story revealed will be cross and resurrection.

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