It’s one of those nights…I am restlessly typing away at 2am when I told myself I was going to bed at 10pm. Something was stewing inside of me. That thing wasn’t going to let me go until I began typing this.
A dear friend of mine emailed me regarding his latest blog entry. It was about an interview he had with a filmmaker named Eliot Rauch, one extremely gifted in his ability to capture some of the rawest moments in a short clip. So I ended up watching a tragically beautiful video doc about a guy who was putting his dog down, and something clicked. In the slightly scratchy and sorrowful voice I heard, saying, “God was that dog I held…today…” I realized some of my own seemingly long lost sorrow.
Yesterday, I ran a half marathon. Just earlier I spent what felt like an eternity (probably a couple hours) deliberating, wordsmithing, massaging, my match.com profile only to lose it two times because the stupid site refreshed before I could save. My job revolves around social work and therapy. I attempt to help people the best I can while they may be in their shittiest circumstances. Yesterday I found out while browsing Facebook (of all places) my ex-wife was married...it felt like a sucker punch in the gut (and why the hell do I find out about this through social media instead of directly from a human being?!?). In all those things, my mind and heart were racked with heavy burdens; but an even more salient question lied in wait, the thing that didn’t let me go to sleep at 10pm. It asked, “Why do I put myself in or go through all these things – intentionally or inadvertently?” I mean, why do I long so much? Why do I have the aspirations that make up the core of my being? Why the fuck do I care so damn much when life sometimes feels like a concentrated solution of hurt, disappointment, and shit poured over a worn heart? Of course, there is the answer that says its part of my ego trying to balance my primal instincts and internalized parent objects from childhood while engaging the death instinct and the manifestations of reenactments and other such hardwired survival mechanisms etched into the bowels of my DNA that keep me going (Yes, grad school has ruined me). And while I think those aforementioned reasons are nonetheless true, I also believe I long for God.
God is love. God is most clear in those moments where honesty flourishes in a redemptive embrace. Like that man holding his dog. I’m looking for those moments; that thing that speaks to the truest part of me. It’s the milk that the baby craves. It’s what I long to experience in the peaks, dips, and in-betweens of this messy narrative. I’m looking for this goodness I feel that has been so very palpable yet extremely wild and elusive. So, like the wide-eyed gambler pathetically trying get back the winnings he had lost just a few minutes ago, I’m at the table hoping and scheming. I’m searching...for love...for God...for any semblance of truth and goodness...maybe in the wrong places, but hoping some of those are the right places. And when I find God there, I hold it like that man embracing his best friend of a dog that was in the truest sense God. Crying and reluctant to let go; watching a precious, good, and true thing slowly slip away. That feeling of God slipping away occurs when the glory of running a half marathon ends and a sore IT band sets in; when the attempts of finding someone to share romantic joy with feels futile and downright ridiculous; when helping others underscores more tragedy; and when feelings of once having been deeply loved seem more and more like a delusion. I know somewhere and at some point in those moments, amidst the furious mix of brain chemistry, psychosocial components, and narrative plots, God was present. There, God touched the truest part of me and I was loved. I believe God still does, but it just doesn’t feel the same…in fact, it hurts like hell now. But now that I’ve poured a little of my heart out, think I can go to sleep. God, please meet me in my sleep…and when I wake, work, attempt to love, and continue on…
A dear friend of mine emailed me regarding his latest blog entry. It was about an interview he had with a filmmaker named Eliot Rauch, one extremely gifted in his ability to capture some of the rawest moments in a short clip. So I ended up watching a tragically beautiful video doc about a guy who was putting his dog down, and something clicked. In the slightly scratchy and sorrowful voice I heard, saying, “God was that dog I held…today…” I realized some of my own seemingly long lost sorrow.
Yesterday, I ran a half marathon. Just earlier I spent what felt like an eternity (probably a couple hours) deliberating, wordsmithing, massaging, my match.com profile only to lose it two times because the stupid site refreshed before I could save. My job revolves around social work and therapy. I attempt to help people the best I can while they may be in their shittiest circumstances. Yesterday I found out while browsing Facebook (of all places) my ex-wife was married...it felt like a sucker punch in the gut (and why the hell do I find out about this through social media instead of directly from a human being?!?). In all those things, my mind and heart were racked with heavy burdens; but an even more salient question lied in wait, the thing that didn’t let me go to sleep at 10pm. It asked, “Why do I put myself in or go through all these things – intentionally or inadvertently?” I mean, why do I long so much? Why do I have the aspirations that make up the core of my being? Why the fuck do I care so damn much when life sometimes feels like a concentrated solution of hurt, disappointment, and shit poured over a worn heart? Of course, there is the answer that says its part of my ego trying to balance my primal instincts and internalized parent objects from childhood while engaging the death instinct and the manifestations of reenactments and other such hardwired survival mechanisms etched into the bowels of my DNA that keep me going (Yes, grad school has ruined me). And while I think those aforementioned reasons are nonetheless true, I also believe I long for God.
God is love. God is most clear in those moments where honesty flourishes in a redemptive embrace. Like that man holding his dog. I’m looking for those moments; that thing that speaks to the truest part of me. It’s the milk that the baby craves. It’s what I long to experience in the peaks, dips, and in-betweens of this messy narrative. I’m looking for this goodness I feel that has been so very palpable yet extremely wild and elusive. So, like the wide-eyed gambler pathetically trying get back the winnings he had lost just a few minutes ago, I’m at the table hoping and scheming. I’m searching...for love...for God...for any semblance of truth and goodness...maybe in the wrong places, but hoping some of those are the right places. And when I find God there, I hold it like that man embracing his best friend of a dog that was in the truest sense God. Crying and reluctant to let go; watching a precious, good, and true thing slowly slip away. That feeling of God slipping away occurs when the glory of running a half marathon ends and a sore IT band sets in; when the attempts of finding someone to share romantic joy with feels futile and downright ridiculous; when helping others underscores more tragedy; and when feelings of once having been deeply loved seem more and more like a delusion. I know somewhere and at some point in those moments, amidst the furious mix of brain chemistry, psychosocial components, and narrative plots, God was present. There, God touched the truest part of me and I was loved. I believe God still does, but it just doesn’t feel the same…in fact, it hurts like hell now. But now that I’ve poured a little of my heart out, think I can go to sleep. God, please meet me in my sleep…and when I wake, work, attempt to love, and continue on…
Last Minutes with ODEN from phos pictures on Vimeo.
