August 2, 2020
For years I only allowed myself to enjoy and appreciate well written literature. I tried to parse it down and identify what it was that made it so enticing, like a molecule under a microscope, so that I could appreciate and emulate the truth within. I struggled to see goodness apparent in itself, and trusted the word and opinions of others only. If something had been deemed great, I read it to find out why it was great. If no one had told me that it was great, I did not bother to pursue it. I was afraid of being exposed to the wrong types of ideas, because I wanted the ideas I was experiencing to be perfect. But really, all the while, I was seeking something which literature can never satisfy.
I wanted books, the culmination of western thought and human imagination, to solidify into the answers for my existence. I wanted to learn my purpose, to understand God and the universe, and to experience beauty in its purest sense. By placing these expectations on the medium, I found myself lost in platonic forms: seeking something ephemeral in something physical.
My appreciation for what was imperfect lessened, and I enjoyed books less and less. I found them constantly disappointing – whether it was the language, the flow, the plot, the characters, or, most importantly, the ideas inherent in the work. Or rather, I should say lack of answers inherent in the conclusions. I was unsatisfied with the questions being asked, but more than that, I wanted answers. And I felt like I wasn’t finding them.
I felt like people were keeping a secret from me - a secret I had to discover and find out and all these books and books and words and words that have been written since man first learned to make drawings on the wall of a cave - what secret did they know that eluded me? How did they find the motivation, and the inspiration, to live, to create, and to love? I have been told the answers were in books, and that I must be ever seeking after answers, but I’ve been taught that the answers may never be found. That they elude us as often as we ask them. That we can never find more wholeness than what we currently have. And yet, in some strange way, these books had the answers I was looking for. The fault was not in them. To speak truly and honestly, it was in me. As I sought the answers in the books, I neglected my own heart. I neglected to hope for answers, and simply despaired, while continuing to push through and read. I must appear to be searching, I felt, even as I have already despaired of reaching the end of my journey.
Books give us the insight into life that we might otherwise never glean, but they only do so when I open my heart to applying the principles to my inner self. And my heart is not an anomaly. I am not denied the answers, set apart from other men - I am a human person, created with an intellect, a will, and a desire to know the truth. Just because I may never know the fullness of truth entirely does not mean the truth is beyond my grasp. New truth is waiting for me not around some far distant corner or between the covers of some academic text, poem, or novel: it is, and always has been, in the inner chambers, the little whispers, and the persistent naggings of my own heart.
I resolve now, and for the rest of my life, to continue to ask questions, but never again to despair of finding the answers. The Lord is a God of knowledge and understanding, and his grace is poured out richly upon those who are willing to open their hearts humbly to his healing grace.