Of Life

I am looking for something. Perhaps you could help me find it. The only trouble is that I don’t know if I lost it somewhere along the way or if I never had it. Another problem is that I’m not even sure what it is exactly. In any case, what I know is this: I’m missing it terribly. 

I first noticed it went missing in the area of vocabulary.

I was telling my friends about a significant experience I had when I realized I lacked the words needed to describe it. Nothing in my vocabulary seemed to fit what I went through, and I started a nervous sweat — not so much because I was nervous about making a fool of myself, but because I was afraid I might get stuck there, forever consigned to a place where significance stagnates on the tip of my tongue and I am only able to speak dully.

So, as I’m sure you would, I eventually settled on substituting nouns for adjectives. “It was all mountain and magenta, mixed with violin and glacier,” I said with confidence. Everyone looked perplexed and no one knew what I was talking about, but I’m certain I did my experience a greater justice this way than by tacking on some over-used adjective. This use of substitution was the first of many such instances. I’ve since continued telling stories with this unconventional style and thus left a number of audiences guessing what it is that I’m trying to say (linguists might heckle me here but hopefully the poets support me). 

My fear is that if I use those words we all carry around so loosely in our pockets — you know, words like lovely, awful, good, terrible, beautiful, wild, awesome — we all would think with such certainty we know what is being discussed. But I’m convinced we wouldn’t. And that’s mainly because we hardly know what we are actually talking about when we talk.

You might argue that you do know what you’re talking about when you talk, and if so, I won’t say you’re entirely wrong. Because I too have studied definitions of this word and that word; I am not completely unlearned when I speak. Only, why is it that I’m still caught off-guard by the words I commonly use? 

I can speak of an embrace, yet I didn’t expect the hug to revive me like that. I can speak of heat, yet I’m never prepared for just how much the fire burns; or of rudeness and still shocked at the effect of an insult; or of an ocean and still surprised by how powerful a wave can be; or of heights and still scared by how high the jump actually is. I use these words as if I know what they entail, yet when I actually meet them, they carry a weight I somehow wasn’t prepared for. When I encounter laws of physics and axioms and meaning and substance, it’s hardly ever the way I expected it to be, hardly ever the way I talked about it. I am continually stunned by the reality of that which I thought I knew, as if there was always a truer meaning behind everything that no one ever taught me. I am often left wondering if I even know the words I use at all.

Ask me to weigh in on the times. Ask me where I think the world is and where I fit in it. If you prod enough, I will respond. But know I will only dance around saying something true. My confession to you is that when I speak, I feel like I am crudely talking in another language, one I have not at all mastered. It’s as if I once overheard a conversation between two native speakers and I now repeat those words, mimicking sounds, not understanding proper use or meaning. My speech remains the shell of a thing, its form and not the essence. 

So, I resolve to become a student again, formal and bound to academia. I stretch my vocabulary and build up a lexicon like no other, seeking to nail all of what we feel and see to precise and thought-out words. Some words are long and intricate, others short and comical. Some are even religious (those I use the most and those I know least about). However, I’m afraid (and I’m still trying to come to terms with this) that no matter how many words I learn and stockpile, I’ll never be able to piece together the puzzle of that which I lack. I could rearrange the words I learn, reuse them over and over, but I’ll only be speaking in spare parts, and how could that ever be enough? I have a hunch that what I’m looking for is something completely outside of our vocabulary. Even so, I have a hunch equally as strong which says I was meant to speak it. 

Perhaps there is a word out there which is entirely other, a true word of some different system altogether, which if it were to grace my lips would finally let me say what I’ve always been trying to say and fill to the brim all my hollow speech. If so, I must find it, not simply for the sake of telling a story well, but for the sake of finally touching something real, for the sake of saying something that takes me from being outside of everything and brings me inside the house where there is a feast with friends and light and song, and there around that table, I will know I have found what I’m looking for.

I believe that word exists. I’ve caught glimpses of it (if you could imagine such a thing). I found traces of it in the moments I used to routinely pass off as a mirage or a daydream. I suppose most of us, out of shyness, have done the same for most of our lives, but sooner or later the soul demands a better explanation. These moments, they usually happen in motion, as you’re rounding the corner but not quite there yet, in between breaths and after laughter, when the eyes settle and that thing you’ve always counted as commonplace appears in that unsuspecting second as something more than itself, and you feel a stirring unto something strong and different, so you blink to see it more clearly, but the moment has passed and suddenly everything is back to normal.

When I am reflecting on these moments, the times when the extraordinary showed its face and something inside of me responded, I am unable to properly describe it and consequently unable to present any type of proof of my experience to anyone. I say what I saw — be it a tree rustled by an unexpected wind or a strong familiarity in a stranger’s eyes –– yet I never can convey the fullness of what I felt through the occurrence. It’s like recalling a song’s melody but not its lyrics. Or remembering a friend’s face but not her name. Except in this instance the lyrics and the friend’s name is the yearning inside of you, the yearning you know is also in your neighbor, but neither of you mention it, because neither of you know how to talk about it, yet it is exactly the thing you both wish to speak of.

And so, in a way, those unique and precious moments taunt me. They stand outside my reach where I can pin down realities and box them in with conclusive words that have set definitions. I feel rather empty and I’ve become increasingly restless. I remain as a man without words, unable to speak of what I’ve seen. I’m starting to consider this search of mine futile, an endeavor that only increases longing but never satisfies it. Unless someone stoops down to my level and introduces me to that which I lack, I will never get out of this pit.

But who would reach so low to teach something so lofty? Who would do that for me? I don’t know where to go and I no longer feel like pretending I know how to speak. Is that why I’d rather sit still than quickly move on with the day like everyone else? Because maybe if we stayed here at the docks by the water, we could muster up the courage to listen and hear it, the word that explains everything, that gives us the missing clue about who we are and the reason things went wrong and the why behind the breaking –– yes, let’s stay here and watch the tide rise and fall, perhaps an incongruence will show itself, or a pattern, and therein, nestled in either the fault or the harmony, we can discern a voice say the word of solace, and by that word enter into a home for our wandering and weary souls, a home where we can exhale that sigh of relief we’ve always wanted to exhale because the knot inside of us has been untangled and we are finally able to speak with understanding.

I choose then to wait in silence for this word. I wait and I wait and I grow weary of the waiting. Yet ironically enough I also become comfortable, entirely entrenched in my way of waiting, endlessly endangering myself and others because I am convinced the way I am waiting will eventually work. I’m certain that it’s just right around the corner because this time, this time it’s different. The system I’ve established will produce the right result now, just like I envisioned it would.

This is when a Jewish man comes to sit next to me on the dock. He observes the water for some time, throwing in a pebble every now and then. Eventually he asks me what I’m waiting for.

 I am too tired to have a conversation but I respond anyway: “For life.”
He chuckles and then sighs, “How’s that working out for you?”
After wiping away my tears and trying out a fake laugh I assure him it’s working out just fine. 
“How about we leave this place and go somewhere else?” he asks, pointing in a direction I’ve never wanted to go.
Considering his proposition, I suppose I could try out another spot. It’s not like I’m addicted to this place or anything. But it’s just so lovely here. How could I ever leave? Plus, my collection of words is too heavy to travel with (and it’s almost complete).
“What’s your name?” I ask the man, wanting to change subjects.
He looks at me and clearly says: יֵשׁוּעַ.
I don’t know how to pronounce that but I perceive he’s a distinguished teacher of sorts, so I ask, “Sir, could you help me find that which I’ve been looking for? Would you teach me the word I’ve been missing?”
“I am that word.” 
I hear sincerity in his voice, which is why I try my best to smile as you would in an exchange of formalities. But I only feel disbelief and anger rising up within me. Out of cordiality I push those feelings aside. I’ve prepared very profound speeches for moments like this, and I intend to deliver one but instead I say, “You’re not what I expected. And if what you say is true, then tell me, where have you been? Why have you hidden yourself so well all these years? And why appear now when I’ve almost figured it out? My search has been brutal. It’s been bloody. And I’ve had to do it on my own.”
I am taken aback by my own words, the words I never could admit were mine but were always there. They were cold and sharp, critical and disapproving. It wasn’t what I wanted to tell him. But like wincing for pressing upon a wound, it was the only reaction I could give.
“Is that how you remember your story?”
“Yes,” I firmly reply. “That’s how I remember it because that’s how it was.”
He stays quiet and I slowly feel less sure about my answer.
“You should come with me,” he says as he stands up. “I want to show you a different way of remembering.”

A different way of remembering? How could there be a different way? That’s ridiculous. Isn’t remembering simple enough: recalling what has happened? I can do that already. But then a new thought pops into my mind and startles me, much like when the peaceful child you’re holding unexpectedly smacks you in the face. Perhaps I don’t remember things the way they actually happened. Not that I’m just forgetting parts (though, that too) but that I’m not looking back rightly. Perhaps my memory is like a roll of film, and while it was developing, it got damaged somewhere along the way, and like light leaks inverted, darkness leaked in, making me see the picture the way it was not. If that’s true, what really is my story? What really happened? I only know one narrative. Could there be another? What if there was progress and significance in the places I only see decay? I want to ask the teacher more about this, but he’s already off the dock, on the shoreline.

“Let’s go!” he shouts with a smile and a wave.

At this moment the dock feels the most comfortable it ever has. And here is where I encounter the confrontation of יֵשׁוּעַ. His invitation does not fit into my life, my approach, my way of waiting. I argue and reason with myself and weigh and calculate the possibility of following him and every time the end result offends me. In order to follow him, I must leave my life.

Being an expert at wriggling myself out of true transformation, I figure I could do this by changing my career, starting new relationships and working on those bad habits I’ve ignored for too long. But even then I know I would somehow stay in this exact same place, because I would be doing everything by myself, without that man. 

I wouldn’t be too surprised if, while following him, some of those things end up happening. But the act of leaving my life is hardly encompassed in such changes. It is much more than that. What’s required is, in fact, death. There is no other meaning for leaving my life. 

And it must be this, because this heart of mine functions on a riddle that cannot be solved. Line after line of a life bent in on itself, a paradox telling of a gaze that peers into the skies to decode the divine while forgetting its own face. It is my biggest do-it-yourself project, the conglomerate of half-baked theories and the medicine I force others to take. The faulty engine that always breaks down despite years and years of repairs. Indeed, it should not all of a sudden run smoothly. I have designed it not to. Otherwise, who would see me struggle? Who would have pity on me? If it worked, if every system of mine somehow balanced itself out in a harmonious orbit, I would be in a nightmare. Because I would be standing on a fake podium empty-handed, all alone. No, I can’t have that. I need it to not work.

This, this is the life that must be put to death. It is the only life I know, but it can no longer exist. It must be left behind to fall into the water and drown. But where does that leave me? How can a dead man remember anything, let alone follow someone? I reason I could only go through with this execution if the teacher offers me an alternative life. Could he give me that? A small wave laps up at my feet, my curiosity gets the best of me, and I decide to leave the dock.

Catching up to the teacher, I match his stride along the shore and eagerly ask, “How do I remember rightly?”
“Be born again,” he replies.
I go quiet and immediately wish I had stayed at the dock. I am an accomplished and distinguished man. I have no desire to “be born again.” Besides, I’ve heard that phrase before. I know all about it. But now he’s saying it like a command, and upon taking the command seriously I am offended (once again). Because it’s entirely impractical. If I am “born again,” then I would have to start all over. I don’t want to re-enter infancy, re-enter dependency. What of all my efforts so far? What of all the words I’ve collected? And more importantly, who is birthing me? What family would I be brought into? How do they operate? Who would take care of me? Who would be my brother and sister? Who would be my father and mother? Goodness, who would I be? If I am “born again,” should I start babbling as an infant does? Who would then teach me how to speak? Who —