Bed Rest

How do I incline myself toward selfless living? Toward sustainable, overflowing emotional capacities? How am I to forge a way through the temptation to slip away into apathy and the still, safe cocoon of indifference; to come out with the tenacity of a warrior and the tenderness of a dove? How might I find myself in a state of being that is more apt to seek the happiness of another than the satisfaction of self? How may I again become lost in the wonder of creativity and marvel anew at the depth of Glory? How can I possibly bridge the ever-widening gap between the woman I so desire to be and the woman I am? The more I reach for the selfless and the kind and the gentle and the loving, living, creating, thriving version of me, the farther I feel from her. And I realize that the hope I have to become her does not bring her to me, or I to her; all the desire I may muster could not possibly make something from nothing. She is but a mirage. And if she is a mirage, a non-existent hero, a pigment of my desperate imagination, from where have these hopes sprung? They don't merely scatter when I flip on the light of reality, like tiny, fearful mice. They remain. The desire burns within me. There must be some way to reach these beautiful things I long to be. They are good, beautiful things, after all.

There must be something I can do. Bolstered by pride and sheer will, I continue onward; running, climbing, reaching toward the mirage. I must be better than I am. I must find a way. I determine that I, surely, can become anything I desire. If only I run fast enough, and use all the wit and knowledge that I can find, and, perhaps, pray that my quest would be blessed. Surely, this is how it was intended to be. An exhaustive pursuit where my feet are put to the test. With all the strength I have, I reach. My fingers can touch kindness for a moment before they seem to push it farther away. I think that I arrive at the doorstep of selflessness, only to knock and find that I cannot open it. It seems that I have reached the top of the mountain when I see that there is still much farther to go. I feel myself growing weary, but I push away the feeling. I must do this. I must fight tirelessly to find life again.

Alas, I find that there is nothing. I simply cannot lay hold of what is beyond me. If I cannot incline myself towards these things, and if I, in fact, regress at the mere reach to them, how can I proceed? I begin to lose hope. Day in and day out, I go on. I point the finger inward and hurl insults and blames. You should have….You could have…Why didn’t you…Why aren’t you… Inward I go, sinking farther and farther into myself. I glance at the good and the beautiful from time to time, finding still the small hope left that I may have them. Wishing that I would be like them. Craving to beat myself into submission so that I, too, could become unbroken. Farther and farther, I sink into myself, until all I can see is me. Me. I find myself in the cocoon I had so desperately wanted to avoid. It is so quiet. So dead. How could I have let this happen? This was not what I wanted. This is everything I did not want. Tired and defeated, I lay down. Heavy from reaching, heavy from blaming, I concede. The cocoon has won.

In the stillness of my defeat, I lay. I lay down. I accept my helpless estate. And as I befriend the idea of failure, I feel something strange. I feel victorious. I feel hope. How could this be? I have failed, haven’t I? At the bottom of the deepest pit of agony and self-loathing and darkness, the place I was sure would offer nothing but the feeling of defeat has, in fact, offered me hope? It takes me by surprise. As I lay there, my realization of just how helpless I truly am growing rapidly, the hope remains. I expect that it was a fluke. It will surely leave, won’t it? How can something that requires light be growing where there is none?

I cannot deny it, this feeling of victory. It is like nothing I felt on my self-propelled journey. Not even in the moments when I thought I had reached something. It is as if the recognition of my inability, the utter weakness, the laying down has put me where I need to be. The place I thought was defined by failure may actually be the place defined by victory. I stay still. Peace. Darkness. Unsure. Hope. Inclined toward Help. This victory, it is an inclination toward Help. Not an inclination toward selflessness or kindness or internal strength, no matter how good and beautiful they may be. And in the darkness, in the stillness, in the quiet, in the defeat of self and the dependence on Help, that is where I finally found hope.