The Curse of Silence

Who knows what happens in the silence? It may last for seconds or minutes…but it feels like it stretches for days and weeks …months and years…decades, centuries, millennia, and eons…this eternal silence that floods the world and drenches all the spaces that we occupy.

As long as the loudness continues all is well – the screech of traffic, the screams of a baby, the yelling and fighting of lovers, and the blare of televisions on every street and neighborhood of the world.

Silence scares me more than any other noise that can be conjured, because in the silence walls are formed, plans are schemed, loves are lost, and tears form and fall. Silence rips a man apart and drives a woman into insanity. It has no form, no function, and no purpose, and it holds your life as a ransom.

What is this future silence that awaits us? I no longer believe in the heavenly choirs, harps strumming, and choruses of angels (I would much rather hear screaming guitars if I had to choose), so the prospect of silence is the most deafening and frightening punishment that we could receive.

When I try to fill the silence with noise, it never seems to satisfy. But it is something, when silence always feels like nothing. Silence is the enemy of all that is good. Silence betrays us and sends into darkness.

In silent prayer my demons rear their ugly heads and every mistake that I have ever made floats to the surface. I do not hear the heavenly hosts and supreme beings sending down their sonnets; no marching orders or the recipe for peace. I only hear silence. I am beginning to think that is the standard reply of the gods.

When the silence screams louder than the voices of men, when even music cannot drown out its roar, when it overpowers preachers and soothsayers and prophets, and drowns out the intelligent ramblings of the wise, madness is just around the corner.

I hope someday I can embrace the silence and make it my friend. But for now it haunts me, taunts me, and overpowers my lucid dreams. Silence is the enemy of my peace. Silence is the finality and fate of us all.

So, silence, you have nothing to say in your defense? Just as I thought.

You Are the Only You

I doesn’t seem fair that this is the only life I have, even as visions of heavenly hallways and reincarnation flood my mind; yet these are the fairy tales and stories written to comfort us with dreams of angels ushering our bodies and spirits to another dimension after our time on Earth is done.

I have believed in “something more” many times in my life and I understand the draw. The excitement of what lies ahead like the anticipation before a grand vacation. Floating on wispy clouds and safe in the arms of a being who will take what is left of this shell and make it into something useful, divine, and immortal.

Believe me, I could use an upgrade – failing eyes, sore feet and back, constant worry about blood pressure and glucose and how many bottles of water a day it will take to keep me alive. When to exercise, too little or too much, or what my body looks like at the beach. Not to mention keeping my brain healthy, meeting goals, making others happy and fulfilling my destiny in a career. There is so much to consider that nightly sleep is a respite…though I fear that worry will even invade my dreams.

Then it hits me that my life is a miracle. I remember the remote unlikelihood of me even taking my first breathe, not to mention dodging childhood illnesses and crashed bikes, terrible drivers, and ICU visits, personal tragedy and heartache, pandemics and life-threatening storms…to arrive at the age I am now; the miracle of living where I live in the time that I live, with all the pleasures and gifts that are coming my way. All these have kept my heart beating and brought me to 55. I have arrived here in one piece, and so I continue to rise every morning with strong coffee and high hopes, believing that I am still making some difference.

It does not matter if I look in the mirror and don’t like what I see. I am stuck with that mask and I must work with what I have. Nobody is going to carve me into the image of that person that I long to be. Even plastic surgery would not make me happier, because under that skin lies the heart and soul of the person I have built and molded my entire life. Technically I am the same person I was at 20, but the years have made me an optimistic fatalist and an unspiritual realist. I am now getting to the age where contentment is sneaking up on me. I am not sure it will ever find me, but I know I am learning to feel comfortable in my skin, even as it wrinkles and withers in the winds of my future travels.

Until I disappear forever.

The In-Betweens

I live in the in-betweens…

Half-way to the almosts and most of the way to pretty close.

I live in the middle-row where the partial view is obscured by either side.

I live in a half-falling, less than stable structure, preparing to be nearly nice and as perfect as I am allowed to be.

I move in tight-space walls where my breathing is short and prayers are scarce.

I watch the mostly-crazy inherent in both sides and peek at the sane that only shows a fraction of its motives.

I cry but the tears only half-way leave my eyes, mixing 50/50 with memories that are yet to be.

I travel the almost-good-enough, always striving, always climbing ascent that never reaches the summit.

I am the former also-ran who sees the finish line that keeps moving farther and farther away.

I will never reach it…I am half-way certain of that. 

When the Last Dragon Falls

I recently fulfilled a life-long goal. In the scope of academic work, it is a gold medal. The last 10 years of my life, including all of my mental, physical, and spiritual energy, has gone toward this goal.

But the crazy thing is…the excitement lasted about two days and then began the realization: “So what?” which was soon followed by a related question: “Now what?”

I thought of an analogy of a dragon slayer (if dragons were real…that is beside the point) to help me understand this moment in time. All of the warrior’s life, their quest has been to slay dragons. It is in the job description and the title. But there is a problem with this profession.

If you are a great dragon slayer, assuming there are a limited number of dragons, you will eventually work yourself out of a job (if you don’t become a French fry first). When you meet the last dragon, you have to kill it. Once again, that is your job.

But as the last blade stroke falls, and the dragon breathes its last, your time as a dragon slayer has ended. Now you are a “former” dragon slayer, for there is nothing more to slay.

Thus begins the dilemma. Do you give up the profession and retire (assuming dragon slayers have a 401K) or do you find something else to slay? The problem is that nothing else compares to the excitement and exhilaration of slaying a dragon. Anything else just seems like hunting. Then it hits you.

It doesn’t matter what animal you slay, it will never bring you the peace that you so desire. Because once the last dragon falls, both your livelihood and sense of accomplishment will fall as well.

A few days later, I had another revelation: dragons are not real (as much as I wish they were) but the monsters we seek to conquer are very much a part of our daily lives. The dragon I really killed, the one that bit the dust when the congratulatory email entered my inbox, was a lifetime supply of inadequacy, emptiness, and discontent. After the demise of the last dragon, I realized that all I have left is the inner strength that comes from being a true warrior.

I languish in the understanding that what I really loved was the hunt. The chase. The fear. The adventure. Now that it is finished, and the dragon, along with my insecurities, negativity, and self-loathing, are soundly defeated, I rest in the fact that the elusive happiness and contentment that follow a sense of accomplishment was always within my grasp.

So what if there are no more dragons to slay? Challenges await, and I will always have my new-found pride and confidence at the ready if other monsters rear their ugly heads. I have the weapons I need.

There is, and always was, a dragon slayer living inside me. I regret that it took far too many years for me to realize that truth.

In My Skin

What is it that I see when I look in the mirror?

This shell holds all of our being together and is shaped and molded by the weathering of time and stress.

I think back to how many years and events have transpired, all the while stuck in this decaying house, even as my brain is pricked and pruned from the challenges, joys, and sorrows of my life.

If our lives were fairy tales, would they be enough to keep the attention of the average child at bedtime?

This skin that has been stretched and reformed through the years is now spotted, worn, and wrinkled.

We do not slay dragons, but we fight the ignorance that we have blindly perpetuated, the apathy that drags us down like an anchor, and the emptiness and fear that invades our lives in times of quiet solitude.

Will time and antiquity ever know that we existed and made some small dent in the fabric of time?

This skeleton of joints and bone and sinewy muscle is sore from many years of indulgence and laziness, but it remembers more than we know.

It has taken years to be comfortable in my skin. The fact that I am a flawless and unique sculpture, and there will never be another reproduction like me, makes me pause. It gives me peace that I am wonderful stitched from the fabric of a larger garment.

What is it that everyone else sees when they look in their own mirror?

This face that has witnessed the whole journey in awe, eyes that have seen beauty and sadness, ears that have heard my babies cry, beautiful melodies, and the sounds of destruction, confusion, and chaos.

If it is really true that the eyes are the windows to the soul, then may these eyes be blessed to see a thousand more sunrises. May my face feel the wind as it whips across the ocean and my ears hear the sounds of happiness and joy that ring true in my children, their children, and eons onward.  

How do I reconcile the anger I feel toward the aching back, fat stomach, and lumbering form that I carry with me every day?

This body that I always seek to be smaller and more nimble is the one that has served me all these years and continues to make me who I am, for better or worse.

The revelation that you own the body you inhabit, and there will never be a replacement or upgrade, is the reality that we must reconcile with if we are to use that body for good, for enjoyment, and to play our role in the ever-present reality of our existence.

Even as I seek to bend this body to my will, may I know that this skin and bones will always be my companion, my home, and my traveling suit, until it is preserved, pressed, and laid to rest.