Omphaloskepsis
Shall I look? Shall I consider the inner workings of my spirit until my head aches from gazing at my navel? What does this accomplish, this self-analysis, this review of reaction and interaction that supposedly makes up my personality? Perhaps it would afford me some clarity - what a ridiculous and empty phrase. But perhaps I will gain, if nothing else, a release in confronting the ache and asking why it exists. I want release. And so I will continue, setting aside the doubting, hesitating, rational protestation that I am only indulging in selfish babblings by doing so.
The ache is deep. It holds me immobile while pulling me, tearing me to action. I am rooted in my fear of stagnation.
A soul passes me, beautiful, fragile in its strength, mysterious in its desire to reveal the mystery. And mine responds, pulsing to discover the other, to mingle my own mysterious beauty with theirs. Love waits to be released, pressing against something thin, transparent, not even there, but ungiving as steel. Words trip the approach. My soul is prohibited entry as is theirs by our reality. We must discuss work. We must exchange rehearsed pleasantries. I must tell the story of my week for the fifteenth time, and they must tell theirs. We must use words like "nice" "fine" "anyway" "so"… And the ache.
How, oh how do I break it? This terrible reality that puts death between our souls?
I take to ignoring all people in whom I cannot invest hours and years of my life, knowing my own impossibilities, avoiding the futility of the conversation. And fantastic lives and vibrant spirits are left unknown, leaving my own life and spirit that much emptier. I mourn the loss, but still wonder if it is not better that we never attempted interaction. At least we are allowed the fantasy of knowing the other, unmarred by the echoing silence of failed communication.
Is this why I am overwhelmed in a crowd of strangers? Twice in the past few months I have had to leave a gathering of fascinating, vulnerable, precious people, all happily sharing their lives with one another, to walk in my own solitude. I was exhausted, irritated even, by their pushing to know me as an employee, an Atlantan, a sister, a singer, dancer, a category of anything they could understand in words. I wanted to shout, to jump on the table and explain so that they would know who I was; I wanted them to do the same. But none of us would have been capable of doing so had we possessed the courage to try. So I left.
But God is faithful, and after prayer I was able to return.
Separation was the effect of sin. Once the ultimate and most wonderful communion with the Maker was broken, all other loves were tainted as well. Designed to enjoy perfect union with others, of course this is a common longing, which will never be fulfilled because of the countless hindrances inherent in our corruptness. And so we ache, torn by an existence contrary to our nature.
But with Christ came the assured hope of restored unity, both with God and with one another. Love will no longer be held captive. I will be free to give it wholly and without reservation. I will know and be known. And occasionally I am given a glimpse of this promised reconciliation, as I live for Him alongside a brother or sister. May I rest in this.
This said, and the release felt, I recognize that communication is a particular weakness of mine, and that I am not given leave to surrender to my weaknesses just because I know why they exist. I must fight against the selfishness that allows me to put my own comfort above learning to show the very real love I have for people. And so I resolve to try. And so I will post my ramblings in the hope that you who know me well enough to read them will help me in this. It is an old struggle, but it must be continued.
I suppose it is good to gaze at one’s navel occasionally.