An hour isn’t enough time to do anything it seems like. I’m finding as I’m sitting in front of my computer, constantly checking my e-mail at least once every 3 minutes, that even if I get a new message it won’t find me in time to do anything about it. Staff e-mail has become such a comfort but such a burden. As I sit and stare blankly out the window at silly people doing silly projects and playing great games of soccer, I’m realizing that I’m no longer a child. And I’m in no way a man. And I think if I had more than an hour, I’d lie down and sleep it off. If I had less, I’d get to work early. I have fifty nine minutes and forty two, forty one seconds. I’ve been looking at the expanse of my life and what little life experience I might have and I've come to realize that never in my life have I been more frustrated and scared, but never have I been more at peace. Let me explain. In the process of becoming a man I am realizing that certain decisions are inevitable. The little nest that I live in is wonderful, but my wings are itching. That’s definitely not to say that in a spirit of bluntness and frustration I should jump out and attempt to fly because then the itching would turn into burning and sinking. Think Icarus, Think Hindenburg. I am not the child I was but I’m not yet the man I will be and on the cusp of flying and exploring and understanding, I am flying and exploring and understanding. A few days ago I was walking through Centennial Park. I truly feel that it may be the most under rated place in all of Fort Myers, but I don’t mind because I don’t want to share it whenever I feel like secluding myself. I have a tendency of becoming very introverted and contemplative and cocooning myself into a shell of sharp and stark aloneness. And every time Centennial whispers for me to come and take a load off of my shoulders. So back to a few days ago when I went for my walk. I have to be honest. I was feeling a tad sorry for myself and really wanted someone to notice, which is why I landed in Centennial because I felt that surely no one would notice in the secluded little downtown. Everyone going about their own busy and melancholic frenzy. I would fit right in. I was walking and I heard the shrill yell of my name by a group of friends. And I kept walking. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to acknowledge them; rather, I didn’t want to acknowledge myself. So I continued to walk a few hundred yards and I sat down to read a few pages from Traveling Mercies. I was quite out of it already from the bereavement that I forced upon myself and from the fact that I can’t hide and become invisible unless I feel like being seen. I looked up and saw a couple, perhaps on their first date. They talked and walked for minutes, all the while holding hands. He would whisper in her ear and she’d laugh. Then they sat down 50 yards from my sacred throne of self pity. In a pious moment I became frustrated but quickly realized that they had every right to beauty that I did and although I wouldn’t embrace it, I couldn’t force my wonderful convictions on them. And I sat in amazement. I can’t tell you how I wanted that. I craved for something, if only one thing in my life to make sense. So I asked God. I pushed aside my piety and profaneness and asked God for something to break through and give me peace of mind or spirit or for the next light I hit to turn green. Then I walked away, forgetting almost instantly about the prayer, but remembering the beauty of the moment. And days later, in the midst of the most frustrating and confusing moments of my life, I have peace. I’m trying to figure out a career and if I’m going to stay connected to ties I have now and if God forbid, maybe I’ll find the love of my life, and God is bringing new meaning to, “Be still and know that I am God.” Maybe for me it’s finally finding rest in the thought that I can be still and realize that I’m not God and that I’m not responsible for putting it all together. So here I sit, ten minutes and thirty three, thirty two seconds from work and I'm realizing that I’m about to work. And I’m going to be still. The greatest storms to ever be silenced were at the same voice and in the same tone by the same God that speaks to my torrent of emotion. After work, maybe I’ll take a nap. And I’ll be still. Because stillness doesn’t mean inaction, it means just the opposite. Stillness means trust, and anything I’ve ever trusted in in my short lifetime has taken a constant commitment to be vigilant in trust. I’m finding the pre empty nest syndrome to be more of the green room to the rest of my life. And the peace of mind and spirit is coming. And in front of me, I’m starting to see the next red light changing to green.
No comments:
Post a Comment