When I was safest, I didn’t know that I was safe. When I was happiest, I didn’t know that I was happy. I don’t mean safe as in protected from physical danger. I refer to the time before I had to feel responsible for my every action. By safe, I mean I didn’t have any financial worries, no obligations, each day involved a series of interactions defined as happy, sad, good, bad…in retrospect, everything then seemed simple. Although, at the time I didn’t see it that way. Safe meant freedom from awareness of accountability. The promise of ‘tomorrow’ loomed large, mystical, and alluring. Knowing that the sun would rise in the morning was enough to help me bear today. The world revealed itself a farce, but then it didn’t matter. Now, it does.
I see a man. He struggles to earn, to pay the bills, to bring home the food, to feed the mouths that eat and complain in the same breath. I see a woman. She made herself prisoner to the expectations of others, panders her soul to justify her place in this space. I see children. They starve for love and search the ‘Why?,’ while media herds them to conform. It’s a pressured cycle, spinning just fast enough to hold them in orbit, but not fast enough to allow them to break free. There was a time I yearned for the ‘Father Knows Best’ standard, assessing my own experience as abnormal. I wanted routine schedules, routine goals, shared meals, laughter, love…hindsight reveals precisely how abnormal that expectation was. I’ve learned that I cannot control my surroundings or the people around me. The most I can control is myself, and even that challenges me.
I worry for those who wallow there. They have not yet grasped who they are or where they are going. The cycle traps them. Inside they yearn for something they cannot define. They yearn till it aches and take round trip excursions in drug-influenced bliss, imagining that they have escaped, only to return further lost and deeper in spiritual debt. They don’t understand what’s missing. After all, modern scientists claim that they can only believe in that which they see, touch, and measure. They cannot see the pain. A doctor will ask them to rate it on a scale of one to ten. But who’s to prove that his five equals her five. They cannot see the love. Is what I feel the same as what you feel at any given time? How could I ever know? Pain, love, and hate are just a few abstract emotions that we claim to experience but we cannot prove. Does that mean that they do not exist? And what of hope? Is it real, if I cannot catch it between my fingers nor taste it on my tongue?
Some things can be measured and some things can only be experienced. Can you quantify love, happiness, satisfaction or faith? To quantify it, is subjective. I know love is, because I feel it in my mother’s hug and my child’s trusting smile. I know love is real because I can feel its absence…acutely. I know hate is, because I glimpse it in the leer of the hater and respond in kind. It amazes me that we as intellectual beings are so ready to accept that love, hate, or pain exists because we see the evidence of its existence; but we are unwilling to admit the existence of an Ultimate Creator in spite of all evidence.
That very scientific reasoning that denies an Ultimate Creator, also denies the spirit, the self, the soul…And so, they wallow, unaware that they ache for that which they refuse to see. What they search for has been inside them all along. We are taught to count, to measure, to memorize, but we were never taught to believe. Who would choose to be blind if they could see?