“The great object of life is sensation — to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this 'craving void' which drives us to gaming — to battle, to travel — to intemperate, but keenly felt, pursuits of any description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.” - Lord Byron to Annabella Milbanke, 1813
I’ve been unable to categorize a particular feeling. It is neither disharmonious nor atonal, dissonant nor abnormal. But indeed, it has reverberated throughout the very ground in front of me and disrupted the rhythm I wish to walk in. Life pulses one way or another, until it doesn’t, and its tempo is most jarring when it breaks the fidelity we demand it to keep with our intent.
There has been a cadence to this year, 2023, and I’ve been thinking about it lately. No, not thinking about the events and moments which serve as trail markers for intrepid cognoscenti, historical and cultural alike. Doing so would only evince what I already know to be true, that despite living in an era of inconceivable abundance the species has failed to overcome its baser instincts of genocide, religious intolerance, discrimination of all sorts and overall backwoods bullshit.
Instead, and rather egocentrically so, I have been ruminating on my journey; a vomit-inducing analogy that makes me want to stop blogging altogether. Throughout this year I have found myself stretched thin. There are responsibilities a young(ish) man bears and tortuously, they seem to grow in tandem with his ambitions.
To disclose them runs contrary to the very purpose of having them. I believe strongly that the measure of a man is how much he will sacrifice for the ones he loves, and at the crux of such sacrifice lies secrecy, necessarily. Acquiring the burdens that enable loved ones to carry on their lives as peaceful as possible requires a down payment of silence. Disclosing such deeds would only push the benefactors to adopt the very crucifix I wish to alleviate them of. So please, take my word for the obligations I joyfully, albeit at times overwhelmingly pursue.
This year more than ever, I’ve felt the impact of those responsibilities weighing on a preternaturally uplifting spirit others have trademarked me for. The hardships I’ve endured have been the type to leave imprints on the soul, curving and shaping it the way a storm weathers a pier. Through no efforts of my own, I’ve been fortunate enough to receive these disasters not as reason to rebuild, but proof that being a little wonky, a little unsteady and imperfect, does not always result in the deterioration of a soul. Conversely, it may even be the only way to compose it at all.
Regardless, I have been battered. This year has brought me love lost, and by my own accord, no less. Aging solidifies relationships for the coupled but for those looking it only intensifies the fragility of not having one.
As a homeowner, I’ve been struck by a litany of whatthefucks. Broken shower valve. Ensuing leak through the ceiling. Ensuing mold in the cabinet. Busted hot water heater. A fridge on the fritz. Broken sump pump and ensuing flooded basement. My door lock (don’t rob me) stopped working. My cousin Steven Austin’d my kitchen table over a card game. And if this doesn’t seem Griswoldian enough, my newel post is wobbly too.
Professionally, I’m soaring, although perhaps too close to the sun. My students seem to need me more than ever. Not just more of my time, but more of a personalized intervention crafted by the care in which my heart relentlessly commands. My vocation, if you will.
I won’t divulge their specific crises, but I will relay that they span the most critical of endeavors; ones where any failure could permanently alter their life trajectory in the most damning, most irreparable of ways. We’re talking adult illiteracy. Escapes from horrid, unconscionable domestic situations. A chance to earn athletic scholarship to a faraway university and break free once and for all from the systemic claws of destitution so common amongst our poorest communities.
Yes, life has been lifing lately.
But back to this feeling, one not of disconcert, but one whose unidentifiable mystique has seduced me throughout the year. Psychosomatic indeed, but more so a propulsion forward than a destabilizing gut punch. Like a siren song, but absent the illusory promise of paradise and in its stead an instinctive drive to simply come out - clean or dirty - on the other side.
And yet, oddly, this impulsive march onwards isn’t fueled by any covenant that guarantees strength as the reward for inner fortitude. I’ve always winced at platitudes echoing how character is the prize for overcoming adversity and blah blah blah. There was no treat at the end of the cheerio box when my father passed, only a yeoman’s casket and an eternal grief I’ve only recently learned to receive as more companion than foe.
No, the desire to prevail has been misidentified as a push forward into an achievement - another step into an enlightened plane in which your backbone is fortified with the overcoming of obstacles great and small. Rather, I’ve embraced a push toward. Not always is an ancient parable or stiffened upper lip the recompense of anguish. Nor does it have to be. Nor should it be.
Perhaps the reason for striding towards is because the boundaries of our life’s adventure contain no directional parameters at all. There is no map. No longitude or latitude, no backwards or lateral. No Divine Cartographer. There is only the intuitive longing to put one size 12 in front of the other size 12, no matter how many times your left knee goes out on you or even when you wear mismatching shoes to school.
What is this feeling of towards but the sensation of sensing everything and anything at all. Not an overload, but a sharper nose, a keener eye for the emotions that matter most, which happens to be all of them. The acceptance that life’s most cherished deposit onto us mortals is not simply the ability to feel, but feel deeply. Feel greatly. Like breathing in fresh morning air until your lungs become invigorated with a raison d'etre.
Indeed, Lord Byron, the sensation of existence is the very object of life. To chase that feeling is to rub shoulders with immortality. Paradisiacal is the land we can walk when one recognizes that such a utopia would wrench out of mankind the purpose for living at all. What a lovely paradox.
I call this “being in the mix.” Neither white collar nor blue collar, only whatever shirt you’re wearing when the sweat from your neck beads with the prospect of love anew. Or impending loss. Or a fleeting conversation with an airport stranger, never to be seen again. Or perhaps anger and rage, calmness and serenity. The dreaded ennui, even.
What a wonderful lesson from this year, but not one without an injustice; one in which so many of us participate in and one which I can longer abide. In its cosmic, karmic glory, the primordial pool that birthed us is of course only where the truest form of life can be found. Merely dipping your toes in it is for cowards or worse, ingrates. Not me, no longer.
I shall cannonball into that bitch, like Ham Porter on a hot summer’s day.
Sincerely,
The guy below