Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Growing up, the one line I heard the most- which was held as an unquestionable and universal truth- was: We are all made in the image of God. Copies, versions, variations of God talking, walking, running, jumping down buildings, laughing, crying, smoking, dancing, sleeping, dreaming big dreams, open wounds and flaws and old scars everywhere, with only a sparkle in the eye, or an air, a kind of presence, to remind one of someone or something so much more.

I always knew that there was no such thing as Santa Claus, but that shock that most people get when they found out? I had that kind of shock too, when I finally tried to comprehend, for the first time in my life, what that statement means- I am not Him. He is not me. We are not, one, as lovers tend to idealize. What am I? Who am I? An image alone? Scratched up or polished up? Each day a different answer. Each day a different explanation to contend with in order to go on living. My worth goes up and down. It doesn't make a difference even if you take God out of the equation. Up and down, down and up. And I could spend my whole life thinking about this and shoot myself in the head or believe, that it all lies in that struggle, that unending fight for meaning, for purpose, for knowledge, for personal truths. One step forward, one step back. What matters is that you keep on moving, keep on trying, on on on.

And hope that things will work out somehow- like the way I breathe, almost naturally, the way I sleep, the way I trust that I'll wake up every single morning (even if sometimes I wish that I never do), the way I feel an astonishing sense of love and gratitude- it is as though I can literally feel myself healing- each time we touch.

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