Always on the outside. Groups form, people find their kindred spirits. Again, you are on the outside looking in. You might be a latecomer outsider, or you might be an old-timer outsider–doesn’t matter. If there’s a way to make you naturally bubble up to the outside of the group, this universe will find it. Of course, it’s all your fault, too. You should change. No, you should be yourself. You should try harder, no you aren’t trying hard enough. You just don’t get it. Again, it’s the universe that wins in the end. In some other universe, you are always the insider and a perennial insider from this universe becomes the outsider.
Accept it. Embrace it. Learn to love that which is you, and move on. Learn to love in spite of things.
I dreamed last night that I was in this underground space where I was permitted to talk to the dead. They came in from a tunnel. I wanted to talk to my mom, but the powers that be couldn’t bring her forth. She wasn’t there, only some of her psychic energy remained, which they tried to conjure up for me. The people who did come in through the tunnel were a mixture of young and old, all very classically dead–ashen, ghostly faces and haunted, bewildered looks of being taken somewhere they had no say about where the place was they were going. The area I was standing in next to this particular tunnel wound its way in a different direction, and I asked if anyone had ever gone off in that direction. The answer was no. I found myself walking down a much better lit corridor than the tunnel of the dead, into an area where I could descend several more levels that were all under water. But, it didn’t seem to matter that they were underwater, it was just like going into someone’s home. A young boy was with me as I re-ascended. I couldn’t tell if it was my son or my little brother. This happens a lot in dreams. We were supposed to get out soon, because the owner of this water house was coming back. I had the feeling that I had witnessed something more like Sheol than Hades or Hell.
Today, I had this overwhelming sense of there not being any grand, noble goals left for me to attempt to achieve in this life. I have been feeling thoroughly post-modern lately in the sense that I can’t wrest forth a kind of meta-narrative for myself that sees an ultimate, crowning achievement of righteousness for me–there is no one single telos, just a life to live. What does this mean in light of Jesus’ admonition to lose my life for his sake? I am not really certain.
I am certain, however, that my future must unfold more naturally, and look less like a perfect path toward the great way of being that was most unequivocally the way of being God always intended for me–especially in the sense of becoming a pastor by way of a true and concrete calling.
I don’t have a lot of faith in things that aren’t simply Jesus, God and Love in their most true forms. Further, I know that I am unable to conceive of them as such–I catch glimpses of the real Jesus filtered through a lot of heavy covering up that has taken place by my civilization. I don’t trust my dreams to be worth much of anything other than attempts to quiet or dispell something that was unstable in my psyche. I don’t necessarily feel like I have a good idea on what my future or the country’s future really look like.
I have experienced a lot of desire lately to be completely freed of this burden of needing to prove myself and become someone for good. I haven’t really made up my mind whether or not I am going to abandon this so-called calling altogether, or just have a conversation with a recruiter who recruits for the kind of work I used to do, and leave it at that.
I feel like I need a lot of rest of a certain kind of rest that I simply don’t get to have much of anymore. I need a refreshing week to mosey around trails in Austin, sit on a beach somewhere, browse the public library to my heart’s content, or just walk around another nearby town with no particular goals in mind.
Particular goals have become a burden for me. I don’t have time to watch a show or two on Netflix, I don’t have time to read a work of fiction, I don’t have time to even be sitting here doing this, except for the fact that I feel like I have to have an outlet somewhere or I will explode.
I’ve also had a lot of random memories popping up in my head as of late. They seem to be indiscriminate and might be from twenty, thirty or two years ago–there is no rhyme or reason to it other than to say that I probably am missing whatever once used to be my home. My self is in a desperate search for a home that I can be truly happy living in–and by home I mean the house and the larger community around me.