An Impossible Beauty
Why do I do this to myself-celebrate my birth. Should I be proud that I am
alive? What have I given humanity that will last 100 years after I am gone? And
in 1,000 years, nobody will remember a stitch about me, or my
"important" books, or academic degrees. Then they, and I, will be
less consequential than a blade of grass. Why then do I trouble myself to
remember my birth?
Each of us are alone on a lonely planet hanging in an endlessly expanding
universe. Someday, even the Milky way in which the earth rests will become
inconsequential, not marveled at or spoken of in awe. Eventually, even the star
systems end. A star who burnt itself out sings the loudest and shines the
brightest. I am only trying to shine like that star.
But who am I shining for? Does a star shine so others notice, or does it simply
exist, and in its beingness, shines? Do I shine so others will notice, or can
I, like the animals and trees, simply be unhindered and natural so that I might
walk by my own light? If the sun shined for my acknowledgement, I would grow
lackluster about its glory because even a glorious thing can become tiresome,
forgotten, and left behind. It therefore shines to be its own source of warmth
and light.
Why is it so difficult to exist free of other's approval and opinions? Why do I
hamper my natural glory so others can feel comfortable with me, or so I don't
appear to be "too much" or "not enough?" Why do I depend
upon someone else to make me feel happy, excited, noticed; to feel alive?
Nature does not operate this way. Why then, should I?
It is because the human animal feels so deeply and suffers so greatly. The sun
doesn't weep when I turn away and ignore its shine. Why should I crumble when
others have taken the party away? But more than any animal or tree could, we
suffer aloneness, jealousy, abandonment; many troubling emotions beset us. Why
were we given this colossal capacity to feel-a tidal wave of emotions? Must I
feel every shade of cold and every chill of grey?
But do animals create? I mean, do they express themselves artistically, or
don't they simply live a patterned and predictable existence? The living things
were given life; locomotion, thought, feeling, but so elementary by comparison.
It is this: without the ability to experience disturbing and strong emotion, we
could not bring forth beauty. For it is rain that creates the rainbow. It is
the artist's melancholy which forces her to sing. She composes music because of
torrents of rivers rushing through her and driving her to it. And from the pain
and helplessness comes a fresh, new song, a representation of life that is
wholly original and moving. The painting, the sculpture, the poem-art bursts
forth and blooms from the dark void. From the wounds of the wreckage is born an
impossible beauty. All the wrongs, mistakes, longings, and regrets we call a
life add up to produce a completely original treasure.
To delight in an opera so expansive-is it worth it? To behold the Mona
Lisa's demure smile-is it worth it? To thrill with chills and ecstasy at a
touch-is it worth it? Someone seems to think so, or we wouldn't be here; we
would have offed ourselves a long time ago. You and I are planted here to shed
every teardrop and to laugh with the angels. To make chaos, and to birth
meaning from chaos. We are here not to hide from heartbreak, but to fully
imbibe it so we can sing what has never been sung.
We can hide for a time; even the sun is eclipsed. Even the moon hides half of
its face. But damp your light long enough and see happens. The devil will creep
into your bones and begin to feast on them. Your own body will turn against you
until you cry out like the stones cried at Jesus' feet: "Have mercy on
me!" And that song is the most powerful of them all. It calls the miracles
down until they encircle you, holding you fast and tight. They are the magic
words that call the medicine man. And before the sun sets you will, perhaps
with trembling hands, respond to that which has been calling your name. This is
the swift river of life-not to be denied, not to be controlled. Be moved by
unspoken voices. Go where your soul is leading.