An Ever Present Shadow: Existentialism

Yesterday I had the perfect day out at the ranch. But it scared me a little. I thought perhaps it was the freedom I felt. The freedom from doing anything wrong. The freedom from guilt, from my inner criticism, from authority figures, from anxiety, but somehow fear remained. New found freedom. I guess it is a scary thing. Like when a child begins to discover there’s more to this planet than their backyard. What do they do? Some cling a little tighter to their source of security, their parents. But as adults, as 20 somethings, mom and dad are at home in the backyard. And we’re here. With a vast expanse before us, and no hand to hold or be held by. Possibilities and opportunities are endless, and that’s scary, too. Where does one start in the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness?

Out at the ranch, this freedom wasn’t intoxicating like I had been told it would be. It was rather empty. And soon, tasteless. No challenges, no obstacles, no anxiety. Just perfection. No joy. No intense happiness. Just life. And liberty. And It was lonely.

My mind wandered into thinking that maybe if I had someone to share this with, I’d find security and happiness. So I went to our 20 somethings group that night in pursuit of a guy to ask out. As I talked to several prospects, I felt surrounded...but empty.

Who was I kidding? From observing life at a safe distance I had seen and learned marriage doesn’t satisfy that emptiness.

I tried talking to God during a time of reflection at our gathering. He was there, present. But still, emptiness.

Is this what they call existential dread? And does it follow me, is it my shadow? I’m becoming quite familiar with it. For most of my life I’ve run from it, keeping busy. What would happen if I embraced it?

...Hello, friend. Nice to see you again. Who shall be the teacher today? You or I?

A New Year, A Memoir

A new year. With new promises. With new disappointments. I felt the only way to arm myself was to seek comfort in some new books. I ambled through the bookstore, sifting through what I really wanted. I could smell the familiar hint of hot tea bags ready to brew. I could even pick out my favorite flavor, Cinnamon Spice. I felt enveloped in a blanket of comfort being surrounded by these scents and books which I’d naively believed held the secrets to life. This façade kept me safe, the truth was too harsh to face, so I carefully selected authors who would tell me to listen to my inner child, to find solace in nature, and to grab firmly by the horns the wonder and amusement of the intricacies of this world and its being, hoping to find that the façade would turn into truth. I clutched my books to my chest, wondering if there was anyone else like me, aside from the writers in my hands.

It was a difficult task trying to decide which book to start with in the café inside the store. I sat back just to take a deep breath when my favorite song came on. Sometimes we don’t just enjoy the moment enough. We’re too busy. That’s when I noticed a guy my age sitting in the sunlight, a few tables over from my shaded hide away next to the wall. He had a journal. He was a thinker. One who cared about his thoughts and held them dear, because it was leather bound with a tie. On top of it was a familiar book with gold edged, thin pages. A philosopher. And in his hand was Jane Eyre. A true admirer of literature. He walked to the bar, book still in hand, grabbed his bagel and coffee without taking his eye off the page. I kept staring, and when he sat down he caught me, and instead of awkwardly glancing off in another direction, he acknowledged me, smiled, nodded his head, and went back to his book, all in a familiar rhythm.