“The most important learning is the ability to expect and accept mistakes.”
What happens when you don’t hear the other part of the duet? Worse still, what happens when you sing your doubt and fears so loudly that you believe that’s the song?
Recently, I’ve gotten back into music in a big way. All my calluses have reformed on my fingers, and I’ve even been crafting and scripting mix tape playlists on Spotify rather than just accumulating liked songs. I was toying with the idea of starting this off with playing one song in particular that also was the first song of a particular playlist. Why? Because Rider’s Lullabyis Lady Aberlin’s song sung over me in a duet mixed with mine of doubt and sadness and fear:
“You’re okay You’re alright I’ll never, ever leave your side I will stay and I will fight With you”
I’ve talked about what I consider the scariest verse in the bible before, and did so repeatedly on the last day of every class I ever taught. But I haven’t realized until recently that I’ve been living in it. There’s been a lot that’s happened in the past five years. And a lot that’s happened even just this last year. I shared with multiple people that I’ve felt surrounded and swallowed by darkness. I battled it at first, because I believed that was the enemy I was to overcome at the time. And then…when it kept winning, I surrendered. I felt that maybe the real battle was to accept that I’m supposed to be where I’m at. To be truly vulnerable isn’t to share about the dark times after they pass, but to share in the dark times as they’re happening. But what happens when even that feels too much? When you’re tired of feeling weak, too weak from being tired? When the dark you’re fighting just…swallows you? And you don’t see anything else anymore.
I feel foolish for not knowing what that personal battle would be for me. You see, I didn’t realize that for me, darkness took the form of silence. I couldn’t hear the song. I couldn’t see those singing it to me.
I was being tended to, cared about, and I couldn’t see the gardeners. What’s worse, I rejected their gardening. I didn’t respond. I didn’t answer. I stayed in the dark.
I have a photo saved on my phone of my daughter quietly playing by herself with an old phone. I snuck it as I didn’t want to disrupt her. As she was on the “phone” talking to whomever she was pretending to talk to, she was drawing the phone itself on a sketch pad. What she said to whoever was on the line was something I had to write down to remember. She went, “think about it. When you’re panicking, what do you do? You DRAW A TELEPHONE IN YOUR HEAD.“ When you’re panicking, all you need to do is remember that people are just a telephone away.
Maybe she wasn’t saying that to someone imaginary. Maybe she was saying that to me. And I didn’t listen. Or didn’t know.
What I’ve been wondering about recently, as these thoughts have come to sink in, is whether that very issue is the point. I’ve shared about trust issues and myself before. I’ve shared about how I have had the tendency to shut down when I’m feeling overwhelmed. When I feel like a burden. (Which is a whole other thing I’m working on dealing with and where that stems from…childhood) I’ve shut out those that care for me until after I’m through the dark, and have come to the other side, lesson learned, something I can talk about and teach. This keeps me from questioning my value, questioning the trust I have for others to actually stay with me as I’m going through it. I have a role, I make it through the dark, and it’s back to my role. Almost like I never left.
“The valley blooms in the rays But simply survives the dark of the night Steadfast, unwavering strength As if there’s a choice to be made”
When things are going right, and there light and life, the valley blooms. But all it can do is survive in the darkness. It’s a dance though, or music. It ebbs and flows from one to the other.
But it’s that last line: as if there’s a choice to be made. For me, that line isn’t simply about the philosophical debate between free-will and determinism. But in this case, it’s that there is no other option for the valley. There’s no choice it can make BUT to have “steadfast, unwavering strength” through the ebb and flow of the rays and the dark of night.
As if there’s a choice to be made As if there’s any other way to do life.
I hate silence.
The last published message I wrote was a lot about waiting for life. And discovering that life is actually in the little moments, the in between. Life is in the waiting for life. It seems I didn’t actually learn that lesson in the past 3 years. Or maybe I did, but the point is that I have to keep learning it. “The valley blooms in the rays but simply survives the dark of the night”
Back and forth.
The story of the giving tree only makes sense from the perspective that it has something to give. And keeps giving until it has nothing left to give. What we don’t see are the periods when it in fact has nothing to give. Where there are no apples. Where there are no leaves. The periods where it’s simply survives the dark of night.
Who am I when I have nothing to offer?
You see, I’ve learned to love myself immensely. But what I have come to realize the past few months is just how difficult it is to let others love me. Or rather, trust them when they do. Maybe it always has been. Knowing me is knowing how passionate I am about striving to show others they are truly loved and have value just in existing. But suddenly I’m thrust in a position where I feel I have nothing of value to offer anyone, that I’m a burden because of the difficulties I’m going through, and when I’m told that I’m loved and have value here in this place, that my importance is equal to that of everyone else, I shut down and refuse to listen. To accept it. Maybe I shut down to keep from hearing it. Because I don’t believe it.
I don’t know who I am when I have nothing left to give. And I worry no one will come back when I’m just an old stump.
Well. I’m not there yet. I haven’t given everything I have. But I am surviving the dark of night. The problem is that I have no idea when that night will return to day. However I am learning to accept the dance, the musical ebb and flow. I am learning that life isn’t in the blooming that occurs in the rays of daytime. Life is the whole thing. And sorry Christian, you don’t have a choice.
And it sucks.
But you know what else I’m realizing? I’m surviving. And I have survived.
Almost five years ago I was in a dark place and never shared about it. Surrounded by gardeners that I refused to tend to me. I made a vow to never let myself get that isolated again. And then…things got almost just as dark recently. The top of my to-do list was simply: “survive one more day.” Friends and loved ones grew angry at me. Because I seemingly broke my vow. But I was doing everything I could. And still am.
There’s the other thing I’ve learned: as much as it’s felt that I’ve just given up, focusing only on surviving one more day—simply surviving the dark of night, I have. And will continue to do so. And maybe that’s steadfast unwavering strength. Not in fighting the darkness, but enduring the dance of day to night—a very long night—and back to day again.
To accept the darkness, yes, but to see that the night time is nothing new. I’ve endured countless nights. Some worse than others. Some longer than others. And I’ve survived them. (And if you’re reading or hearing this, so have you—insert pointing emoji here)
How?
Steadfast, unwavering strength.
Sometimes I hate it. I don’t want to be reminded that I have and will endure. I don’t want to be reminded of just how capable I am. Of hope. Of my own personal steadfast unwavering strength (as if there’s a choice to be made…) I hate that I so often find myself in the darkest of spaces—consumed, swallowed up. And yet, when all I want to do is give up, I don’t. When all I want to do is have no hope, I hope. When I don’t want to feel, I keep feeling. It’s like I have no choice in the matter.
No choice to be made.
Maybe that is just what truly makes me crazy. When it all makes sense to give up hope, and feeling, to stop fighting and just give up, and you don’t? That’s insanity. Madness. When everyone is in agreement, “Hey Christian, no one would blame you for losing it. Totally makes sense.” And maybe I do, but not in a way there’s no coming back from. Maybe true madness is in dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe, bearing unbearable sorrow, running where the brave dare not go, righting the unrightable wrong, loving pure and chaste from afar, trying when your arms are too weary, to reach the unreachable star; not because you’re choosing to do all those things, but instead maybe true madness is because you don’t have a choice to do them? You don’t choose to reach for the unreachable star, you reach for the unreachable star because you have no choice. You have to reach for it.
as if there’s a choice to be made
What if the unreachable star was a shooting star?
We make wishes on shooting stars. There’s way too many Disney movies that have seeped into our cultural mindset that it’s just a given that when you see a shooting star, you’re supposed to make a wish. But what if you couldn’t think of a wish? Do you chase the star? What if your wish is for the star? Do you chase the star? And if it keeps going, keeps shooting, what then? Do you chase the star? Do you keep reaching for what is more unreachable than a stationary star?
The whole of song, The Impossible Dream (link), is about doing the impossible. Not achieving the impossible, but doing impossible things. And it all culminates in the statement about just WHAT will make the world better: reaching for the unreachable star. Up until a few nights ago—when I actually saw my first shooting star ever—it never occurred to me that the “unreachable star” could be anything but stationary: a fixed point up in the night sky. After all, it IS an impossible task to actually reach a star. Any star. And I believed that the world is better for every person scorned and covered with scars who nevertheless stands tall and reaches for the heavens. It’s better for every person who doesn’t let the scorn and wounds and scars keep them beat down, laying in the dirt. Stars are out every night the sky is clear. You just have to look up. And I used to believe the lyrics of the song conveyed that. With all my woundings and actual scars, with all my scorn, if I keep standing, and looking up, and reaching higher, the world will be better. But what if the star was a shooting star? Well then you see it once, and it’s gone. Then to strive to reach the unreachable star isn’t just standing and looking up and reaching higher, it’s chasing. It’s active. It’s standing and looking up and reaching higher and moving and running and searching. It’s also believing. I can sit and watch the stars on a clear night as they remain. I can pick Polaris the North Star, which stays in the same spot in the sky (if I want even more of a constant). But a shooting star is gone in an instant. You experience it. Question what it is you just experienced. And then have to believe. And when it’s gone? Well for THAT to be your unreachable star, you have to believe. Believe it’s still there. Believe you can follow where it’s headed.
But see, it’s also doubting. And questioning. It’s wondering. And it’s wandering. Because you don’t know where it is. You don’t know where it’s gone. You don’t know where you’re going in reaching for it. Or what you’re even doing. You go where you believe it went because you don’t know. You can’t keep looking towards it to follow and strive to reach it. So it can feel like aimless wandering around. Meaningless, even. See, I’ll never reach Polaris. But I can strive to reach it, and in doing so I have a very definitive direction. And I can keep looking up. Finding it. Pointing towards it, revealing it to others, whenever I need reassurance or a definitive answer to what I’m doing.
What direction do you have striving to reach a shooting star? What definitive answer?
What if everyone starts questioning you? Unless they were there and experienced the same shooting star, you can’t point to a shooting star and say, “that’s what I’m striving to reach,” because there isn’t a star to point to. You end up looking even more crazy than if you were to tell them “I’m striving to reach Polaris.”
Especially when you get the “umm, actually” people who want to make sure you know a shooting star isn’t even a technical star.
What if you start questioning yourself?
All of this is making me think of the movie Stardust (yes I know it was a book first…). See, I couldn’t think of anything to wish for when I saw a shooting star. I was just amazed and surprised and it happened so fast that it was only after it was gone that I was certain of what I had seen. I saw it come into sight and then leave. Show up against the backdrop of the night sky, and then disappear into it. And I couldn’t think of one single thing I would want if I could have one single wish granted. Sure, I’m in a lot of need and there are plenty of things I could think of wishing for that would solve those needs. But in that moment, I didn’t want any of them. I told someone about it and said the only thing I could think of wishing for was that I want magic. Like for actual magic to come into the world. Real legit magic. But honestly? If anything, I would have wanted to relive the wonder of that moment again. Only this time in slow motion so I could take it in fully and just savor the wonder of it. Maybe pause just so I could get a real good look. Make that moment, that star, mine.
I’d want the shooting star itself, is what I’m saying.
Which brings me back to the film, “Stardust.” What was it the lead character, Tristan, was wishing for in that moment? In that moment, he wanted the girl he was with, Victoria. And she wanted the star. But what was his wish? His real wish?
And what happened when he went chasing for the star? What happened when he strove to reach this (now seemingly reachable) unreachable star?
Magic.
Over the course of the film, Tristan changes. He discovers he’s royalty. He discovers that the very thing he believed he desired was with him the whole time. But had he not gone on the adventure, had he not reached for the unreachable shooting star, his eyes would never be open to it all. He couldn’t see it until he could. He was chasing what the shooting star promised, not realizing the shooting star was the promise. Without the adventure, he would have never changed. Without a shooting star, he would have never discovered magic actually exists in this world. Without the story, he would have never discovered love. It took the dark of night to reveal the shooting star, and set him off on his adventure. It took the adventure to open his eyes and show him his true self.
And maybe that’s all one and the same. Magic equals love. And life equals the adventure. But it doesn’t happen only in the rays. The whole of the adventure is the blooming and the surviving.
Without night, there are no adventures. Because there is no cause for adventure. But once there’s a cause for adventure—a star to reach—then even when the day comes, the adventure continues.
Without night, there’s no stars to reach for. Only the sun. Oddly enough, I find it fascinating that the true sky is the night sky. Think about that one. We just can’t see what the heavens truly look like because of the brightness of day that changes the ceiling of our planet. The valley blooms in the rays, but simply survives in the dark of night. And you know what that is? Magic.
Maybe magic has always been here on the earth, I just haven’t seen it because I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t hear it because I was singing my song too loud. But I couldn’t get to the point where I heard and saw, except by not hearing and not seeing. I had to be too loud and too blind. And maybe, just maybe, that’s going to happen again and again.
But just what have I learned, if I have to say I’ve learned anything? My madness is…steadfast, unwavering strength.
As if I even have any choice.
Life is the adventure. In the song and the dance of night to day. And it’s magic. It’s magic that we’re all enduring and surviving.
Tristan changes throughout the course of the film: in appearance, skills, desires, and identity—discovering who he truly is. His eyes open and he sees. But he also doesn’t change; not fully. One thing is consistent: steadfast, unwavering strength.
As if there’s a choice to be made…
He changes so much that he almost has to reintroduce himself, even to those that truly know him.
It took the darkness and silence to remind me of my love for the song, my love for life, for love, for the magic. I forgot they are all one and the same. I hate that I may have to keep learning this lesson. I hate that it’s as if there’s a choice to be made, and it’s one that I’m not making, or making the wrong choice. Maybe I hate that there is no choice. I’ll keep needing to go through this. I’ll keep needing to learn this. I’ll forget that life isn’t just in the rays, life is the cycle of day to night to day to night. I’ll forget my song. I’ll forget to listen to those singing it to me. I’ll believe that I can’t endure and I’ll shut down and shut everyone out until I discover myself on the other side. I’ll remember my own steadfast unwavering strength. I’ll break. And grow. And break again. I’ll thrive. And then survive. And thrive again. Be blind to the magic. Then see again that it’s always been here. I’ll sing. Until I won’t. Then I’ll hate the silence. Until I sing again. I won’t hear your song. Until I do. I won’t see the star. I’ll doubt it even exists. And then I’ll start reaching for it again. And that’s the point. It’s taken this long to remind me that it’s all part of the adventure, it’s all part of my story. It’s life.
And I’m happy to keep living it, in both the rays, and the dark of the night. I’ve got a star to chase, and keep reaching for. One that I have no clue where it is, and I can’t point to. Which means all I can do is exist. In the madness that is to keep going.
I don’t know if we personally know each other or not, but everything we’ve been through has led us to this moment (as if there was any other choice to be made). It’s all part of the magic, all part of the adventure, all part of the madness. And I am SO glad to not only have made it through, but glad you have too. I’m glad for the change, but also of the reminder of what hasn’t.
So whether we’ve known each other or not, let me take this moment to introduce myself and sing, “Hello, hello, it’s nice to meet you.”
->and the world will be better for this…
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Leaving La Mancha 