Why We Try to Stay Asleep
It is in the early hours of the morning that I write. The flashlight has illumined my steps to the room with the computer, and I find that if I dwell too long on any of the concerns of my life they seem insurmountable. The problems of the world are more than I bear to consider - the darkness of poor decisions rests like a millstone around my neck; poor decisions of my own and poor decisions of others. Problems that are not of my making and not of my choosing surround my like a thorn bush, threatening to prick, slice, cut or gouge me should I try to move.
The ticking of the clock becomes an all too clear reminder of mortality: it passes too fast the older you become and the more you appreciate it. Youth is wasted on the young, but only the recklessness of youth can bring the maturity and understanding of the importance of life and life lived well or the sadness of recognition of life misspent. Maturity comes at a high cost. The Apostle Paul mentioned putting away childish things. Sometimes those things are put away without your knowledge and sometimes we have moments where we recognize that things are being put away and they hurt so deeply that we cannot bear to consider it.
I remember twice in my life where I recognized the passing of life, the passing of youth, and the end of moments of innocence. One happened when I was in college. I came home for an extended break and found myself playing with Legos. I built an extraordinary spaceship. It was grand. And it had sprung entirely from my imagination. I recognized how very strict I had been with my Legos as a child - I built only what was instructed and did not wish to build something that took those constructions apart. How much I had missed! I recognized the joy that I had experienced with those toys and constructs, but also how much I had not experienced because I was limited by the instructions.
A second still haunts me. I was 7. The grocery store we frequented had a bakery just inside the door to the left. They were extremely generous and gave cupcakes out to children offering a sugar rush to children and a problem for parents to contend with usually about 3/4 of the way through the store. One afternoon my mother and I walked in and I was offered the customary cupcake. I chose to not take it.
Some hours later at home I started to cry. I cried because I hadn't taken the cupcake. I remember a mixture of feelings that I couldn't put into words then (and that I might be projecting now). I remember feeling as if some threshold had been crossed that could never be uncrossed. As if in not accepting the cupcake I had accepted the burden of growing older. The memory of it still lingers.
This is the acute time of day. It is the fluorescent light in the bathroom, revealing lines that have seemingly appeared from nowhere; lines created by the creased forehead from a day of angst, a day of worry, and even a day of study and joy. It is the time of day when I recognize just how many things I cannot change and my lack of serenity about that fact. It is when I hear the phone conversation from the previous afternoon and recognize that there really wasn't anything I could say to change that person's mind. It is when I ponder the mixture of competencies and blunders of a later conversation with an old friend who has had her eyes opened wide to the hypocrisy of people she had trusted.
It is a time I would rather sleep through, but today I found myself awake. The bed provided no solace, the pillow refused to cool, and the tick of a second hand was far too loud. It is the time when the ghosts of yesterday's actions sit and sip their drinks and watch me wander by the light of artificial means to the kitchen where the refrigerator light is blinding, the noise of the glass on the counter far too loud, and everything I should have gotten done in the previous day seems like a list that can never be completed.
These are the times of stark relief. These are the times when eternity seems close at hand. These are the times where I type with my eyes looking at a bookshelf but not really looking at all. These are not bad times, nor are they good. They are the times that try my soul and that will seem almost impossible to comprehend with the light of day; as if a dream in which I have dreamt I was awake. And the clock ticks on.
The ticking of the clock becomes an all too clear reminder of mortality: it passes too fast the older you become and the more you appreciate it. Youth is wasted on the young, but only the recklessness of youth can bring the maturity and understanding of the importance of life and life lived well or the sadness of recognition of life misspent. Maturity comes at a high cost. The Apostle Paul mentioned putting away childish things. Sometimes those things are put away without your knowledge and sometimes we have moments where we recognize that things are being put away and they hurt so deeply that we cannot bear to consider it.
I remember twice in my life where I recognized the passing of life, the passing of youth, and the end of moments of innocence. One happened when I was in college. I came home for an extended break and found myself playing with Legos. I built an extraordinary spaceship. It was grand. And it had sprung entirely from my imagination. I recognized how very strict I had been with my Legos as a child - I built only what was instructed and did not wish to build something that took those constructions apart. How much I had missed! I recognized the joy that I had experienced with those toys and constructs, but also how much I had not experienced because I was limited by the instructions.
A second still haunts me. I was 7. The grocery store we frequented had a bakery just inside the door to the left. They were extremely generous and gave cupcakes out to children offering a sugar rush to children and a problem for parents to contend with usually about 3/4 of the way through the store. One afternoon my mother and I walked in and I was offered the customary cupcake. I chose to not take it.
Some hours later at home I started to cry. I cried because I hadn't taken the cupcake. I remember a mixture of feelings that I couldn't put into words then (and that I might be projecting now). I remember feeling as if some threshold had been crossed that could never be uncrossed. As if in not accepting the cupcake I had accepted the burden of growing older. The memory of it still lingers.
This is the acute time of day. It is the fluorescent light in the bathroom, revealing lines that have seemingly appeared from nowhere; lines created by the creased forehead from a day of angst, a day of worry, and even a day of study and joy. It is the time of day when I recognize just how many things I cannot change and my lack of serenity about that fact. It is when I hear the phone conversation from the previous afternoon and recognize that there really wasn't anything I could say to change that person's mind. It is when I ponder the mixture of competencies and blunders of a later conversation with an old friend who has had her eyes opened wide to the hypocrisy of people she had trusted.
It is a time I would rather sleep through, but today I found myself awake. The bed provided no solace, the pillow refused to cool, and the tick of a second hand was far too loud. It is the time when the ghosts of yesterday's actions sit and sip their drinks and watch me wander by the light of artificial means to the kitchen where the refrigerator light is blinding, the noise of the glass on the counter far too loud, and everything I should have gotten done in the previous day seems like a list that can never be completed.
These are the times of stark relief. These are the times when eternity seems close at hand. These are the times where I type with my eyes looking at a bookshelf but not really looking at all. These are not bad times, nor are they good. They are the times that try my soul and that will seem almost impossible to comprehend with the light of day; as if a dream in which I have dreamt I was awake. And the clock ticks on.
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