I approached Ash Wednesday with great anticipation. I felt ready to embark upon another journey into the ‘wilderness’ knowing that it would be a time of both self discovery (which may or may not…ok probably not…be comfortable) and of discovering God in a new way.
The journey began rather pleasantly (I will, perhaps, post the whole story in time) but I soon found myself in a place I did not want to be…ill in a hospital. Last school year I had become very ill and spent two weeks in hospital with severe pnemonia. With that in mind, I had become very germ conscious and was washing my hands at every opportunity and even had become adept at pushing a shopping cart without touching the handle. I really believed that I’d make it through the winter without serious illness again. That was not to be though. I thought I had recovered from a mild flu when I suddenly spiked a fever and soon felt a familiar pain in my side, as it became harder to breathe. I did get away with only 3 days in my local hospital and, by the grace of God, it was actually a pretty good experience. In fact, while I was there I became convinced that I should become a hospital volunteer in spite of the fact that I don’t really need something else to do.
I begin my volunteer training this week by learning how to follow all those privacy regulations that health care workers and facilities must abide by. My job will be to staff the gift shop one evening a week. The shop is not currently open in the evenings, and for the time being the day I am there will be the only day it has evening hours. If all goes well, they’ll seek more volunteers for the evening shift. It’s a new adventure, and I must say I really don’t know why I am supposed to be doing this…I only know that I am.
On a different note, I must say that it feels good to be writing again. I think one thing that kept me away from the blog for so long is that I still don’t think I’m doing it right. I don’t quite get the categories and tags, and have trouble posting pictures…which is why I don’t do it very often. It’s work to figure all this stuff out and I guess I just wanted to get out of it!
“The obscure longing for something I could not name,” spoke the reader of the book, and as I heard those words they immediately took up residence in my mind where I could not escape them. I was listening to a book on CD several days ago as I drove to work when this occurred, and I have played those same words over and over again since.
I have been pondering of late just why it is that I seem to have lost the urge to write. I had concluded that the urge was still there, but that I have actually been avoiding this activity that I love. I had no answer to this paradox. There was truth in all the possible answers I came up with but they all seemed incomplete. When I heard those words, “the obscure longing for something I could not name”, I thought, “Yes, I know that feeling!” Indeed I have known it for as long as I remember and by now have realized that it will never go away. It’s not a bad thing, this obscure, unnamed longing, but it is often uncomfortable. It challenges me to walk the dark corridors of my own interior, to open doors that are shut tight, and to explore the unknown rooms. This obscure longing leads me to ask questions for which there may be no answers, and take the risk to receive answers that I may not like. This obscure longing challenges me to broaden my understanding of the possible and to open myself to God in new ways. It’s like a dull ache, this longing I have. It’s not what could be called a pain but I am aware of it on one level or another almost all the time, and like any dull ache there is the possibility that it will worsen into actual pain at some point. Because I cannot name the ache, it scares me if I think about it too much or too deeply.
Writing, when I do it well, in one way or another connects me with my own obscure longing for something that I can not name. I think perhaps this is why I have avoided it these past months. The avoidance began during the busyness of the Christmas season, intensified during the depression of winter, and became well entrenched during the imposed thoughtfulness of the Lenten season. Now that Easter day has come and gone though, I find that the light and joy of Easter have not yet dawned in my heart, and that there is simply no escaping that obscure longing that I can not name.
If I write, I take a risk. If I do not, a part of me may shrivel up and die. So, I shall write.
