Get up, get up
Is this adulthood? Having that desire to talk to someone close, confide, commiserate only to scroll through your short-list realizing you can’t add burden to the seemingly heavy loads everyone is carrying these days. Death, health issues, raising families, layoffs/unemployment, going to school, everyone is going through it.
The other day, I asked my mother on the phone, whether “it” was always like this, whether life throws one punch after the next, so much so, that getting up feels counter intuitive, as you start to find, taking a punch is easier when you’re already lying down.
“No, this is something different” my mom said.
So now, comes the challenge of separating the enjoyment of life from the value of it. And in many ways, it should be easy. Enjoyment is superficial. It’s such a flat word, until you go through days, weeks…years(?) without it. Then it’s insurmountable. It pegs at you reminding you that it exists, just not in your field or vision.
Life, of course, is so valuable. Which, is why it is so devastating when it is lost, or drained or abused. But the value of life sometimes feels similar to having $100 bill in your wallet when no one takes cash. You can look at that bill all you want. You can appreciate it and treasure it but if you can’t use it or share it, it starts to taunt you.
[And it may seem cheap to compare life to money. But when I think about the fact that the money I have represents my life in hourly or annual increments, it feels like the closest object that life can be compared to. Money as signs of life, signs of labor, signs of having had existed at some point.]
Enjoyment isn’t all of it, of course. There are many things in life that are not enjoyable but are “worth it.” I don’t enjoy waiting in the ant line of impatient flyers on the jet bridge as I wait to board a plane, but I still think it to be a privilege.
Maybe life is about appreciation, about gratitude—reminding your ego that your experience is but a spec in the grand scheme of things. Good or bad, this life is miraculous and the craziest, most inexplicable thing we’ve ever experienced [regardless of your religious or non-religious beliefs.] Yet, the lives of the less fortunate bubble up in my thought line. Those who know war as their constant, pain and suffering. What about the sick, the needy, the lonely, the lost? There’s a shame in my even asking—what’s in it for those people? Are some [a lot of] humans collateral damage to the spin of the universe? But, my blind spots don’t take into account that resilience and a fighting heart are some of the most elucidating tonics. A clear goal even through the most treacherous of experiences make some hungry for the next day and the next, more so than those who “have it all,” because hope is an expedited ticket out of present circumstances.
I’ve always felt most alive when I’ve had something to work towards, not work through. The idealization of the future made the present seem like a jet bridge to the final destination. Yet, as we get older, a lot of life is working through and through and through again. Simultaneously, the things to work toward appear smaller the closer we get. From the most selfless acts, like helping others (without it being driven by ego) to the most selfish like promotions or a job title (that aren’t driven by a need to provide), they all look larger on the packaging. That little 3 hours of volunteering or bump in salary, or reassurance to a loved one, or personal best; small. So small, because these things never fix the underlying issue, which is a deep sense of dissatisfaction and no where to direct it. Dissatisfaction with the state of the world, with the self, with others, with tomorrow before tomorrow even comes. And an embarrassment grows, admitting that the level of wisdom, faith and maturity (and often trust in the almighty) needed to truly appreciate the basics is lacking.
For me, a lot of this boils down to fractures in our social systems. Community is an idea that is held on a mantle to signify the good ol’ days. Why is it, my desire for connection is acted out by my opening a shiny device that will hopefully scratch the pervasive itch of loneliness that I feel. I couldn’t tell you the last time I rang a doorbell, or called anyone but my mother or partner unplanned, or hung out with someone without scheduling 15+ business days in advance. I grew up a culdesac kid now I wait for my neighbors to walk by before leaving the house so I don’t have to interact (despite feeling lonely). And a lot of that is me. Connection exists and I see people who are great at it, but I do know I’m not the only one who feels like something ain’t quite right. Like loneliness comes with the territory. Like “this” is unnecessarily hard. Like we’re too busy getting pummeled by life to look up at it and say “hey, thanks for bringing me into this world.” Like a parent beating a child with a belt as they demand respect and appreciation. The child knows the warmth of the parent’s hugs and the safety of their affirmations and laughter, but the more that strike stings and scars, the more all else is cheapened. The more that bill starts feeling like a crumpled piece of paper in the pocket.
[I am grateful to say I was not raised to fear the belt.]
This all has a very negative, “doomsy” tone. My inner exploratory dialogue is pessemistic. For me it’s neccessary—it’s like digging up the dirt to clean out the rubble. The thing is, I do have hope. It is diluted and flat but it buzzes somewhere deep down. I see mending in community spaces and a “we can’t keep” going on like this attitude. I see sacrifices for the greater good happening and discourse that sounds quite honest. Discomfort precipitates action. You have an itch, you scratch. You’re sleepy, you sleep. You feel lonely and tired and like all of this is for naught. You write about it and hope for the love of a God that braces you, that you can find your footing with all of the others who are tired of lying down.
