And it is here, sitting in my oh-so-favorite shop of coffee, that I am finally pulling my head out. Beginning to, at least. I am realizing that, if I do not turn things around, at the bare minimum I will have to change my description of values listed atop this blogging page. Life, love, spirituality, health, friendship. Those elusive yet invaluable qualities that make life worth pursuing.
I seem to have deviated from said list of values. In a deep conversation with Lauren (several deep conversations over the past few months, one profound discussion last night) I verbalized my perceived lack of control. The problem is not a lack of direction, nor a lack of purpose in life. I sit smug, confident in my life’s purpose (though what that purpose is I may not know for some time); however the micro-plans and immediate priorities throw my thoughts into bedlam. I feel like the train is on the tracks, in motion, though I’ve no way of predicting how many stops or detours wait on the route.
I am spiritually lost. A friend of mine (a dear friend actually [which I did not fully realize until last night]), in sympathetic dialogue, described his soul as his haven. His sanctuary. His private, secluded area of retreat to which he smuggled his problems; dragging them from the world’s chaos into his sheltered, secure refuge for dissection. I do not have such a place. The concept of my soul is mired in typical and atypical questions from the mind of a 26-year-old male. I have never felt so lost spiritually, or at least have never expressed it openly and admitted it to myself.
Family is concerned. Lauren is concerned. God is in question. Oddly, there remains an obstinate flicker of faith. “It will be OK, I’ll figure it out.” A phrase I hear myself (disconnected) reciting to my mother, fiancé, and friends. Actually, this is not a pacifier, nor a detached attempt to console those listening to (reading?) my ramblings. “It will be OK” wells from an unwavering assurance that this is all necessary; hard, damn near impossible to figure out, but imperative for my happiness. That same flicker, of faith, keeps me from freaking out all-at-once (though I fear it’s happening ever-so-gradually).
There it is: happiness. The word is seldom spoken, written, or otherwise vomited from my (limited) vocabulary without the conjoined twin “satisfaction”. Satisfaction: the act of fulfilling a need or desire or appetite. I set these ridiculous goals, kills myself to accomplish the goals (while concurrently setting other goals), then move on without acknowledging accomplishment. Hence the lack of control feeling, the train analogy. No one is at the helm; I don’t feel like I even got to buy the ticket.
Ironically, and this adds to the confusion, I’ve nothing to complain about. I look at my life’s elements: Money, Love, Health…. ? All is well on each front, though collectively I feel hollow. I really enjoy my job. I really love my fiancé. I really love my family, our house, the dog, my friends, my sport endeavors. Something, is missing.
No one wants to tackle such issues, and I’m experiencing a temporary alienation from my friends (I have not really vented this to anyone, though I suppose I emanate a scattered/phony demeanor that is compassion’s anti-serum). People get all squirmy, dodgy when asked about personal satisfaction, spirituality, love. God. What?
God is love. What? This comment is piercing, more so than any of the verses I’ve chronicled away in the annals of my Baptista upbringing. I hold tight to the concept as a tangible descriptor of an intangible entity. I feel? Check. I feel love? Check. I feel God? Maybe. My scientific, overly-educated cranium is leading me to spiritual tribulation, but the best-formulated chemical (scientific) explanations for emotion do not quantify my feelings.
