Rockbridge

Well, it’s been almost three weeks since Rockbridge, and surprisingly I’ve made it back in one piece (me and the mountains share an unpleasant history of blunt-force trauma). It was an amazing experience, but I think it will still be a while before I sit and sort everything out; I’m writing this in hopes of expediting that process. I have a lot of mixed feelings about a lot of things, and I certainly need to explore the topics a bit more before I’m sure enough to write, but hopefully I’ll be able to form at least a rudimentary thought on the matter.

I’ll start with my general consensus on the event, I’ve mentioned that it was an amazing experience, a good experience, and one I hope to revisit in the future. However, there is something markedly different about this past week that contrasts nearly every other experience I’ve had with events of this nature. The camp was moving, to say the least, but that movement manifested itself in the shape of more of a depressing compunction, as opposed to the customary “Yay, Jesus” kick we get on. That sounds cynical, and like it would make for a terrible week, but honestly I’m grateful for it. On the whole I think that, for me at least, that was more helpful than the Jesus high that I used to associate with gatherings of this nature. Whenever I think about Rockbridge now, I get the image of Christian pride, the love of God, and a conviction of purpose raining down on us from all sides. Surrounded by people who share at least one strong connecting thread, we go to tracks and lessons with very clear purpose and direction, we worship fervently en masse, hands raised and crying, and it’s all wonderful. However, from here I feel as if that rain, and those tears, used to wash over us, but then just bead on the surface. Everyone can see it there, you can feel it on your skin, you’re (counterintuitive to this metaphor) “on fire” for Jesus, ready to go out and convert the world by mere example. This persists, sometimes for a week, sometimes for the length of the car ride home. You move back to the familiar, away from the rain, and old habits greet you at the door and brush it off your shoulders. The water is shaken away, and life returns to wonted behavior. The event itself is not necessarily bad, or even a waste, there’s a certain level of religious affirmation that I believe is really healthy for the human, and more specifically, the Christian condition. However, that said, it still bothers me to know that I can feel so strongly about something one week, and even now, just not even two later, my fervor has waned to an barely perceptible glimmer, and even that is merely what lingers with the memory of Rockbridge, not something I’ve connected with my everyday life.

This is something I hope to amend, it’s not going well right now, but the glimmer is still there. When I sit down to work on this, or when I see one of the pictures from the week around on someone’s profile, or what have you, I remember my plan and more importantly what drove me to them. As I’ve said Rockbridge met me with a pang of conscience. I don’t want to call it guilt, guilt is not of God, but it certainly spurred me towards a change. I’ll admit that this process was augmented by a certain level of self-reproach over failure to enact these changes before now, over all the ruts I’ve ever fall into, all the roads I could have taken prior to now. This was not of God, it’s another weakness of my own heart, but nevertheless I’ve used it to fuel my efforts. In reference to my last blog, the rain this past week (yep, more water metaphors, get used to them) washed over the dirt in my eyes, and down through the ditches I’ve been laying in. I’m not calling it a cleansing rain quite yet, all the mud is still swirling in the water around me, but it’s diluted, at least for now. I’m above my ditch and treading water, but the storm has stopped and I’m left with a choice. I can start swimming or I can water for the waterline to fall and take me back. For now I’m just collecting my bearings, watching the stars. At the same time though, periculum in mora, yeah? Danger in delay.

Muddy Feet

They say a man can never step in the same river twice, both because it’s never the same water, and he's never the same man. Be that as it may, I can still feel the old me dragging my brand new feet into the same muddy riverbed. I’m not in the same water, and I’m not the same man, but the mud still surrounds my soles and grounds me. Seeps into my pores, and fills me with a familiarity I can’t brush off. I know I’m a different man underneath, but what can that stand for if the mud covering me still looks the same?

By nature, I try to fix myself, but my problem has always been that I can never step far enough away from myself to avoid the same rivers and mud-puddles that I’ve been flailing around in for so long. I can see that I am covered in dirt, and as much as I try to clean myself, my years of struggling have only muddied the water around me and rendered it just as useless. We’ve been talking about similar issues at Midtown (at least the last ones I was able to attend), particularly the Damaged Goods series. I’ve never had a problem admitting that I am an inherently imperfect individual, I can see the mud on me as plain as day, and the waters I wallow have become anathema to me. Seeing the problems has never been an issue, and consciously working against them has always been a priority, but to no avail. I sink further in as I try to bathe myself in the same river that soaks into me. And even now as I look at the Frankensteined metaphor I’m working with, I see that the answer has always been there. If I’d only looked at it as objectively as I always thought I did. I could look down at my hands and feet and see the mud on them, but the key was always to look around and find someone to pull me out onto firm, dry ground.

This has always been a weakness of mine, and even as I saw it, I could never see past it. It was the water around me that I never thought to remove myself from. Struggling to wash my dirt off for so long, I failed to see it swirling around me and settling back down on my feet. I never asked for help, I never reached out for a hand. I could see people around, people cleaner than I, and I would try to climb up and reach them, but not once did I just reach out my hand to take theirs. As I stumble along through this thinning imagery, I’m reminded of another element to add to the heap: the image of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. I’ve heard the story a million times before, but it wasn’t until I started writing this that I see the larger significance behind it. The lesson I had always taken was that of humility. That to be more like Christ meant living with a servant’s heart, and it’s always been a lesson I tried to hold to. Put others first. While that’s a wonderful lesson in itself, I believe I've misread the situation. To me it always read as "put other’s needs first, and don’t burden them with your own." I always tried to solve my own problems in the background, by myself. I was even reluctant to give them to God, and that was the root of my downfall. I could talk about my problems with God, and even a few select people here on Earth, but it was always on the terms of “I have this problem that I need to deal with”, or “I’m working hard to get this under control”, even with God, I simply tried to acknowledge the issue, and reassure Him that I was handling the situation. Oh, what a fool of such little faith I must be. I never gave it up to let Him help me through. I never saw the symbolism that it was Jesus washing the feet of his followers. That it takes Jesus’ hands to remove the dirt from us, to make us clean. That the weight of my filth is mixed in and subsequently washed away by the blood on the cross. Sorry to stretch this image for so long, I realize it may seem overplayed by now, but running with metaphors helps me think.

Looking back at these blogs I realize how many of my problems involve me being stuck in ruts, a creature of unerring habit. I’ve always seen recognition and acknowledgement of a problem as half the battle, but I’ve never thought about the fact that I’ve never really moved forward into the next half: seeking help. If it was of my power to remove myself from it, I daresay it would never have gotten to be a point of issue. I’ve heard it a million times before, but it’s time I actually listened to the saying “Let go, and let God.” I try so hard to be a respectable servant that I never look up see how my God wishes to serve me.

In Moratorium

So, it’s been a while. It seems that writing, along with many other things in my life, has been put on hold for a while. I’ve been noticing that I haven’t been doing much at all lately. I go to class, I do my work, I participate in the occasional social outing, but I’m not really there for any of it. At some points in my life I’ve been given to occasional intervals of introspection. Taking a brief hiatus to ruminate and reorganize. However, it has come to my attention that this is not one of those times. During those periods I’m merely too withdrawn into my own thoughts to make proactive decisions, but as it turns out, this time I’m not there either. I’m somewhere else, I think about nothing, I plan for nothing, I’m just growing stagnate.

I wish I were here to tell you that I’ve realized this, and that I’ve made a decision to move on. Unfortunately, I don’t know what to move on to. For the life of me, I don’t know what I want, or where I want to be, much less how to go about fulfilling those desires. I’m living by rote, simple subsistence. At first I thought I was just taking a break, seeking rest. I’ve been through a pretty rough New Year, pushed in and weighed down on multiple sides. I thought I was just letting myself adjust. However, as far as I can tell, I’m settled on those matters. I’ve addressed and come to terms with all the stressors I can identify, and I quickly resolved what I could, and ridded myself of what I couldn't change. Reason would dictate that I should be well on my way back to normal. I should be pretty close to living how I used to live, sure I had my worries, but I was happy, at least relatively. I’m not happy now. I’m not sad either. I’m not angry, I’m not pensive, I’m just here. I don’t believe one can live in total pervasive apathy. Everyone has to feel something, and certainly I do. Perhaps “melancholic” is the word I’m looking for. I don’t know. I’m stuck in some indefinite state of suspended action, idling away, snared in some perpetual ennui. I’m not sure how to go about remediating this. I’m not sure where it began, or where I should look to begin. They say time heals all wounds, but conversely it is also said that time destroys all things. I’m not sure where I need to go from here, or where I’ll end up, and I suppose only time will tell. So, I guess all I can do is keep waiting around for me to stop waiting around.