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daisyface84
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Interests: reading...
writing...
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driving...
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Expertise: talking on the phone...
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Occupation: Customer service/support
Industry: Other
Message: message me
Member Since:
8/7/2003
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| Hey, everyone! Check out my new blog at..
http://swilson-thots.blogspot.com/
I will be posting more regularly there. Thanks for reading!
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| My house on Washington St is yellow and large, with sweeping front porches and balconies. With several doors leading in and out off the porches, it practically invites one to slow down and drink a mint julep on a porch swing. There are many wide windows overlooking the tidy green lawn, which is dotted with spring tulips and purple irises. A short yet sturdy black iron fence stands guard all the way around the house, with a gate leading up straight up to the front stoop. The roof of my house is a deeper tan than the yellow slats of the walls, sloping just barely enough to hint at a low-lying attic. It overlooks the park with an easy sort of familiarity. After all, my house has stood here since 1886.
Oh, it’s not my house. I walk by it nearly every day when I try to combat against the startling effects of a desk job. It’s such a lovely house. I’ve loved it ever since I was a child, when I noticed it while playing at the park across the street. There’s something about it that makes my heart cry “home.” I can’t tell you if it’s the many verandahs, the picture-windows, the several doors leading to the inside, suggestions of cozy window seats and built-in bookshelves, welcoming kitchens and living rooms, that make me heave an inner sigh of contentment whenever I see the house. It suggests a place to come after a long day of work and care and plugging away at daily life, to rest and play and be refreshed. A place for friends and family to come and be cared for within its old yellow walls. It is the sort of house that is always hospitable, with a constant welcome mat by the front door.
I doubt I’ll ever actually live in my house on Washington St, sipping an icy lemonade in the shade in the summertime, with a well-thumbed novel at my side. But the idea of such a house to offer and provide hospitality to others is something to believe in. To have the sort of welcoming spirit that would make such a house as the one I have imagined possible. One doesn’t need a large house or the right furniture or fancy dishes to have a warm and inviting spirit. To be the sort of person that makes a place for others to feel comfortable and at home. I have been shown this kind of hospitality time and time again in all my travels and wanderings. It is so healing and refreshing to be given such freedom. I want to be able to provide this sort of welcome, this kind of generosity. A grand goal, to be sure. Life steals enough of my joy as it is. I allow all the little things to take all the gifts I have to offer. Yet there are always small times to give, to be that welcoming presence, that inviting soul, to the stranger on the street, to the check-out clerk at the grocery store, to my mother, to my best friend. It is both sobering and rewarding to give the gift of hospitality, especially when it may not be taken at all. This is when one hopes to always have an open heart, one that is always ready to give.
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| So dream when the day is through;
Dream and they might come true.
Things are never as bad as they seem,
So dream, dream, dream.
--Johnny Mercer
I am not a dreamer. I know that we all dream while we are asleep but mine seem to be buried deep beyond retrieval. Perhaps they are tucked beneath my pillow or nestled between the sheets. Maybe my dreams fly away somewhere over the rainbow or maybe they are filed neatly away in my memory. Wherever dreams go after we dream them, I do not have the key to unlock them. I wonder at others who are able to recount their dreams with great detail and frequency. I wonder if my dreams would be worth telling to others or even to myself, if I could remember them. Are they funny dreams, moments from my days all jumbled together into a sort of Laurel and Hardy comedy? Maybe they are more muted in tone, like mismatched sepia slides from days gone by. Perhaps my dreams are more like nightmares, my fears and regrets crunched together with scenes from Alfred Hitchcock films. It is somewhat interesting to think of nights gone by with no memory, a third of my life unaccounted for.
There are, of course, other kinds of dreams. The waking kind. The kind that get you through the day. I am this kind of dreamer. I want to see past the immediate reality of my circumstances, to see what can be and not just what is. Oh, I don’t have a five-year plan or any real ideas of what to do with my life. But I have dreams regardless. I have dreams in my head of peace, for myself, for my friends, for the world. Peace within relationships, with ourselves. For a peace that allows us to breathe even when our circumstances would cut off our airways. For peace between nations, between family members, and everywhere in between. It is a dream that seems so unattainable most times. But this peace is sometimes glimpsed, in a conversation between friends, in the sharing of a meal, or even in a cup of simple coffee. We are given a blessing of peace some days, some moments, and it is just enough to keep us going.
I have dreams of just enough faith to keep me believing in a God I cannot see, but whose presence I have sensed at times, like an elusive scent that brings me back to my childhood. A trusted friend once said that God gives us enough mercy for each day, that we cannot store it up, but that we wait for it each day, as the Israelites waited for their daily manna. And this is the sort of faith I have, a daily choice to remember his presence, his promises, and the good things he has already given me. Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the author of Hebrews says, the evidence of things unseen. I am still working out what this means, but I do believe that one day, these unseen things I hope for will be seen. These dreams of mine, these waking kind, maybe are only dreams. But dreams do come true sometimes. And sometimes the reality is better than the dream.
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| Walking along at Cornwall Park recently, I was deeply engrossed by my own thoughts, nearly unaware of the wintery, spindly branches of the trees and the patchy green grass. My reverie was broken by the calls and happy shouts of two children, their father, and the family dog playing in the wide field in the middle of the park. I observed their excited antics, which were no doubt inspired by the warm sun and blue skies that had unexpectedly appeared. The father was throwing the ball for Fido and the children ran around picking little daisies. The little girl in particular caught my attention. Her long fluffy brown hair flew wildly about as she ran from flower to flower, her sweet high voice ringing out over the field as she called to her brother and her father. When she had collected enough flowers to fill her small cupped hands, she ran to the path and stood there, her hands full of springy daisies. She yelled to her father to watch, to watch. I continued on my way, wondering what she was going to do with the flowers. Her father stopped throwing the ball and waited for his daughter. I assumed this was not the first time the little girl had called to her father to watch. Waiting for the right moment, the exact time when she knew she had her daddy’s attention, she flung herself into motion, running at full speed towards her father. At the opportune time, the perfect time, she threw the flowers upwards into the air with all the strength she possessed, a flowery confetti covering herself, her father and the dog. She shouted, spring is coming, spring is coming. She immediately ran to collect more flowers to do it all over again. I grinned to myself. I continued on my way, avoiding the muddy puddles. Spring is coming, spring is coming. | | |
| Stare, stare into the basin and wonder what you’ve missed.
–W.H. Auden
The sad sack was a sittin’ on a block of stone
Way over in the corner weepin’ all alone.
The warden said, hey, buddy, don’t you be no square.
If you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair.
--Elvis Presley
I have been perpetually single since I was 20 years old. I am still not quite sure how this happened. I think I always meant to be married by the time I was 25. I was never a person with major life goals and 5 year plans. I assumed that like most of my friends and peers, I too would “find someone” and settle down. But through circumstances and choices and chances, I find myself alone in my mid-twenties. I have been fortunate to possess many close and wonderful friends of all ages and both sexes, but I still find myself struggling with the burden of loneliness. I find it to be an enveloping cloud that weighs heavy on my shoulders and on my heart. It is a reality that is ever-present. In a world so obviously built for couples, it is strange to figure out where I fit as a single person. The pain of being single is most obvious when I walk in the park on sunny days. The sun brings out couples in droves, old and young, all in various stages of love and companionship, and I walk by them in obvious solitude. It brings to my attention that I am alone. I waver between a muted envy and a half-hearted hope that I too might one day find someone for me. I don’t want to be bitter about my singleness, since it is something I have chosen for myself, in some sense, and because I decided a long time ago that I would rather be alone than be with the wrong person. But it is difficult when I see happiness in the faces of those couples at the park and realize with a gnawing awareness that I don’t have that happiness.
Being single for so long has not been all bad. It does have its benefits. I am free to make my own choices and decisions about work and leisure and travel and social interactions. I believe that I have been able to get to know myself more and that I am a deeper person for being single. When you have no one to identify with, all you have is, well, yourself. I have had to search deep within to figure out how to live alone. As an intensely relational person, I have deeper friendships with people than I would have had if I was in a relationship or married and I am thankful for the opportunities I have had, both in relationships and in work. I suppose now that my college days are over, I would like to think I’m ready for a “real” relationship, but this has not happened yet. Over the past few years, I have slowly been trying to reconcile myself to the idea that I may always be single. I know I am relatively young, especially since more and more people are married later in life or not at all. But being single forever is definitely a possibility.
The prospect of being alone for the rest of my life is a daunting one. It scares me to think I may always be single. Always alone. It makes me widen my eyes and wonder what I’ve done to myself to cause these circumstances. I wonder about the past few years and what I could have or should have done differently if I really wanted a relationship so badly. Being single all the time causes one to doubt oneself all the time. One lives in a constant state of unknowing. Is he the one? Could this one be who I’m looking for? I think the uncertainty is one of the worst parts. Because it’s not just uncertainty about any potential prospects, but about one’s self as well. I am constantly evaluating myself and my identity. I believe that in spite of what I know to be true—that I am a whole person and able to be at peace without a significant other—that part of me believes that I need someone else to be happy and content and confident. I believe that I have listened to culture, movies, music, and the opinions of others to dictate my ideas of worth and identity. And now I have trained myself to believe that I need a relationship to be happy. I can’t watch chick flicks very often or by myself, because they leave me wistful and wishing for my own Tom Hanks. The best songs are about love, and so sometimes I avoid music as it brings up the loneliness of my situation.
However, I don’t believe that couples are evil or marriage is bad or that any celebration of love is horrible. On the contrary, I believe that all those things are good in and of themselves. I want them for myself at some point, but the fact that I don’t have them yet is painful. I have wondered why being single is so painful. Because it is very painful. It hurts to realize that one is not pursued or being pursued by the wrong person. I think that’s why it hurts so badly sometimes. If you are not being pursued, you feel unworthy, that there is something wrong with you. I don’t know if this is across the board for all women or for all single people, but this is from my own experience. I have tried so hard not to become bitter or hardened towards men or towards even being single. I believe that would be such a waste of time and energy. Trying to balance the pain of being single with the good things in my life is a goal that I often fail at. I am not sure how best to deal with being single most of the time. I want to be healthy and whole. I am starting to believe that “happiness” is perhaps overrated, that there are other things to pursue and think about, than my lack of a relationship. I want to focus on the friendships I do have and on doing good in the world and to become a better disciple of Jesus. Sometimes I think longingly that I could do all these things better with someone at my side who wants the same things.
Living with loneliness is reality for me. It is strange to be in a room full of people and friends and still be alone. I believe that my pain has produced in me a deeper way to live and to relate to others, both married and single. I believe that single people represent an important reality about our spiritual selves as well: we are all alone before God with nothing but ourselves to offer Him. Henri Nouwen has much to say about loneliness and our pursuits to be spiritual people: “This experience is frightful as well as exhilarating because it is the experience of being alone, alone in the world, alone before God” (pg 13). We all have deep-rooted desires to be known and to know, to be loved and to love. A significant other can only begin to cover those desires, but I believe that only a relationship with Jesus can fulfill those desires. I have believed this for most of my life, but the past few years have almost seemed a test. Do I really believe that? After many tears and much prayer and deep conversations with trusted friends, I do. I believe that we were meant to be in a relationship with the God who made us and that only when we are in relationship with Him, will all other relationships makes sense and be meaningful and be in perspective. Only then will I know that my worth is in a relationship that I already have, and that any other relationships or friendships are merely good gifts that He has given me. Those friendships help me see my relationship with God in a better and clearer light. And so I will continue to reconcile the reality that I am alone and yet not alone. That I do have a relationship with a God I cannot see and friendships with those I can see. If I ever do get married, I look forward to a relationship that will help me be my best self and become a better follower of Christ, a relationship that will point others to the best relationship of all.
Work Cited
Nouwen, Henri. “Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life”. New York: Image, 1974.
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