always choose the tightrope
Whenever I read the humorous writings of my fellow bloggers (i.e. Ser, the Miles), I feel embarrassed of the serious nature of this blog. I seem to write strictly about struggles, punctuated by the occasional funeral. The truth is, I do dwell, mentally and emotionally, in sensitivity to human suffering. I’ve always leaned toward the melancholic, but my theological education then sealed the deal by immersing me for two years in the pastoral and theological and cosmic problem of suffering. Plus, it is just a tendency of Orthodox spirituality to keep the old dial of mirth turned to the lowest possible volume. Save the annual burst of unbridled joy at Pascha, rolling on the floor with laughter, drinking yourself silly, and otherwise ducking out of constant mindfulness of one’s own sin and the horrible effects of sin in the world is not, as it were, recommended.
However, I am genetically inclined toward laughing– hard. I come from a family of people who tend to laugh until they cry, and it took me a good many years and hard lessons in reality before I realized that there are people walking the surface of this earth who simply do not go in for that kind of laughter.
A once-heard scrap of hopefully scientific information which I have no reference for tells me that laughter and crying are physiologically similar. It makes me wonder if the melancholia and hilarity I can experience are, in fact, not that wide of an emotional range. One time, in church, while singing in choir, in fact, a friend and I started laughing so hard that she had to stand in a corner and I had to go sit down somewhere else until we gained control. A friend, a man who had once spent a lot of time living in St. Catherine’s monastery on Mt. Sinai told us later that this often happens to monks in church. Perhaps it is a release of the nervous tension and seriousness born out of trying to live life correctly, trying to have a spiritual life, failing most of the time, of course, but relentlessly trying.
I’m not saying anything about my paltry spiritual life here. But the truth is, I do feel a sense of spiritual obligation to be attuned to all the ills of the world. Therefore when I listen to NPR and absorb the news about how polar bears are soon to be added to the endangered species list, the Netherlands are going to be underwater due to rising sea level, and the Midwest is running out of water and looking for ways to pump it in from the sea, I ponder, ponder, ponder. When I hear about the mother of a two-week old who was arrested because police determined that she caused the death of her baby, I take it pretty hard.
It’s no wonder that I sometimes want to plunge into the world of little youtube boxes containing the comedic archives of Mystery Science Theater, the farting preacher, or A Bit of Fry and Laurie. I want to laugh, even if it may be not spiritaully recommended. Maybe what I really want is to cry. I can’t be sure.
Oh NPR, how I both love and hate you. You spare my winter day from feeling as cooped as it could be, but you take my mind in a thousand directions that it is not smart enough to synthasize in a twenty-four hour period, REM sleep included. My toddler likes to dance to the snazzy scraps of music you play in between your programs. I keep listening dutifully to all the updates about the campaign trail(s)– trails that swerve and crisscross, like the three-prong footed tracks of hyperactive sandpipers on the Florida beaches of my childhood. This is what I compare the pool of candidates too– spastic sandpipers negotiating the frothy tide. And the more I follow their antics, imagining that the information will bring me closer to conclusion, the more the whole thing feels like an opaque concoction of rhetorical soup with too many cooks in the kitchen, NPR journalists included, however lovable their voices. Who can claim to see through all of that broth and decide who to vote for? And even if we vote “rightly,” who’s to say that another bullet fired in Dallas won’t send the whole mess spiraling into a “political situation” none could forsee.
Well, this is why I like literature and hate politics. I think that politicians are crazy for thinking that they can weild one iota of control in the cosmos. They should be ashamed of themselves for the way they talk. And this is why my emotional duty is to sympathize anonymously and privately with the suffering things in the world, and also, probably, why I need to laugh really hard once in a while, even though I have no talent for writing comedy myself. Garrison Keeler, on the Writer’s Almanac, quoted something from Edith Wharton the other day. She said that life is either a feather bed or a tightrope, and she preferred the tightrope. I think I do too, and yet, I am really looking forward to the spending spree that the government plans to dish out this spring to stimulate the economy. I guess we are all full of inconsistencies.
The picture above is one I took after being trapped indoors all day due to freezing temperatures. It doesn’t relate to this post in any way, but I had already uploaded it and decided to leave it.