Have you ever missed yourself? Missed the person that you could be, that you sometimes are, the person you know is buried deep within you? Have you ever been so exhausted and so disillusioned that your default position is to ignore all that is waiting and only deal with that which is so close that is sometimes looks fuzzy? Have you ever hated the person you are but can’t find that ability to be the person you know you could be?
These last weeks I have been what the common man would refer to as “down in the dumps.” I hate the common man’s little sayings and bit and pieces of sentiment that can’t possibly describe anything accurately. Rather for me these last couple of weeks have been a series of pushes. Pushing myself to get up in the morning, pushing myself to smile and speak in a conversation, when all I truly want to do is stay in bed until that single spark within me ignites again. I know that it is there. I know that little bit of kindling is waiting for the spark that will warm me, will hold me in its glory, and will direct the path to turn with my very steps.
I am not looking for energy as most would see it. I am not looking for happiness or even hope; I am looking for that nudge, the consistent push on my back to keep me moving. I am looking for the desire to live, the desire to walk among those that I love most in this world. I looking for the ability to give my husband all that he deserves, instead of reserving the last bit of dynamism I have each and every day for my children. I am looking for a way to not compromise all that I need and all that this family needs, for the ability to sacrifice one for the joy of another.
Where is the proverbial sun? Where is the thrill of living? The thrill of being a very lucky person? Where is the liveliness to sit still and love those around me? Where is the verve to be the strong and participating life liver? Where is the will to be so much more than a ghost in my life?
I can’t seem to find it in a special taste, or a special smell. I can’t seem to find it in medication and steps taken to be sane. I can’t seem to find it in the easy, but I can’t seem to find it in the hard. The desire, the elan, the power is all there, dormat, taunting me and laughing at me. And those that I love the most can’t hear the silent screams of force that are waiting. Those that I love most in this world can’t see the trying, the hammering, the constant question wondering when that flame will finally be lit.
Rather than fight an unknown and unseen enemy, I find myself curled up in sleep, pretending, waiting. Rather than wildly swinging my arms in the hope of drawing enough energy that I can light that flame, I am waiting. I am waiting for the world to decide that today is going to be different. I am waiting for nature, for God, for my very soul to ignite a purpose that I can not duplicate. I can’t recreate a mirror image of something so precious, so holy that it controls all that I am. Instead I have to wait until something other than my conscience, my real soul, finds a way to burn.
I have always believed that the only thing more powerful than that flame, is the brain. The complex and often misunderstood brain that can control the deepest resources within us. It can smother the conflagration until it deems the need for the burn is greater than the loss of the heat. It can determine the path of the first flicker, and the flare of that first roar. And until the brain deems that spark is needed, there is nothing mortal man can do but wait.
Is it true that some humans feel more than others? Is it true that God, or whoever is responsible, gives to some the astonishing ability to find the very workings of the mind, the soul, and the very emotion that makes us human? Did God give me a brain that could dim the lights so the only fear I can see is the one that brings me so close to death itself? Did the world decide, without my knowledge, without my breath, that there were times of life that must be silent, that must be still and therefore must be dark? Who determines when the flame is once again lit, and why is those that we surround ourselves with, those we love the most not taught the lessons that our mind finds is worthy?
Why do I fall, not to pieces, not to bits but to a dark place? Why do I have a compulsion to simply wrap myself in darkness, and live until the world gives me a reason to begin again? Where do I find synthetic flames? Where do I find the generic blaze, the substitutes for a spark?
And if they are there, why isn’t my child’s laughter powerful enough to give me the strength to start it myself? Why isn’t love or even hatred big enough, strong enough to give me even the most basic spark? Why must I wait, rather than simply going to Wal-mart to buy myself a brand of the very need that I feel? Why can’t it come from those that are inside of me as much as they are around me? And how to do let the world know, that the sadness, the darkness, the overwhelming need for silence and peace is destroying me faster than any other weapon?
Where is my turn in this path that we call life? Where is the bend, the curve, the simple intrusion that changes the very being the road presents? When do I get to feel the necessity of being? When do I get the feeling to be more than simple? When do I get to be all I can be, rather than all that I am today? And at what moment will that pillow represent so much less than the sanctuary that it currently gives?