Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
I have spoken that phrase to myself often in the past months. If used too often, I suppose, the impact lessens (and I risk a copyright infringement lawsuit from Tim Robbins and The Shawshank Redemption). But neither has occurred yet. And the phrase still resonates.
The clustering of struggles, or misfortunes, is a common experience. It never rains, but it pours. It’s always that day when you have two events to attend, each requiring a different uniform, a project due, and an official visitor that you discover your car’s gas tank is nearly empty. Or a co-worker gets hurt. Or a loved one needs support. Or a family member turns on you.
The phenomenon is not confined to single days, either. It’s always that month in which you have to travel, and there’s a period when your boss is gone, and work is very busy that you get sick. Or have to move. Or have a loved one needs extended support.
In tough periods, it takes a very strong person to hold it all together. Some cope by becoming reclusive. Others with alcohol or cigarettes or fast food. Nearly everyone cuts out the healthy habits that are hard to fit in our lives even at the best of times: exercise, leisure time with friends, some hobby truly enjoyed, meditation or religious practice. And you might find yourself desperately lonely, drowning, and numb.
Most of the time, we come through. There’s some growth, perhaps, and some accompanying regrets; there’s also a period of freedom and gratitude. Things are so much better now. The question asked millions of times by millions of people is, how? What changes? Is it the world--does ‘bad luck’ turn into good luck? Is it the person who effects an ‘attitude adjustment’? The staple of daytime talk shows and self-help books is the promise that if the author’s (or host’s) advice is followed, the dark times will disappear and happiness will endure forever. How nice. How unhuman.
Christianity teaches that such dark periods are opportunities. It’s hard to put into words without appalling, but according to Church teaching God allows us to be alone without him, whether due to our own choice (rejection of Him, which equals sin) or because our love of Him has room to grow. It’s easy to be cheerful, loving, and generous when life goes well--it requires much more cheer, love, and generosity when the world feels arrayed against you. This opens up quite the proverbial can of worms (Pandora’s box?), however. Why would God ever wish us to suffer if he’s so loving? Why have ‘dark periods’ at all?
I have no answer to that one. But the record shows it’s a part of life--if you believe such things, even Jesus went through dark periods as a human. Once, certainly during his 40-day temptation in the desert; once prior to his crucifixion in the garden of Gethsemane. St. Augustine’s Confessions admirably relates the development of a ‘dark period’ and his transition to happiness (the word ‘admirably’ captures even the reaction of non-Christians); St. John of the Cross wrote a famous Spanish poem about it that Spanish Literature majors like me study in college to this day; both St. Teresa of Ávila and Mother Teresa of Calcutta, 500 years apart, wrote movingly that despite their lauded closeness to God by fellow Christians, they underwent periods of almost crippling depression while they dealt with a dark period of their life.
But I digress. All we collectively know about these ‘dark periods’ is that we don’t collectively know how they come about, or recede. We just know that we experience them. And I feel as though I am finally emerging from a dark period myself, for no other reason than the simple details of this Thursday.
The sun was shining as I woke, rested, from the first complete nights’ sleep in weeks. It was shining--there’s no other word for it--gloriously. The quality of the light alone made me want to jump up and do something. The warm, windy conditions yesterday, with the heavy spitting rain, were redolent with memories of storms and tropics; they presented a figurative last hurdle and prophesied a moment in just such a sun. The wind breathed strongly but relaxingly through the freshly scrubbed air and trees in the brightness, and there was a fresh scent.
I also wrote an award. It’s hard to imagine that this extra little piece of administrative paperwork would bring such satisfaction, but sometimes I feel trussed and crushed by gratitude, the monstrous burden of having to be grateful all the time to those who have helped out here and there, or forgiven a blunder I’ve made, or even just done something nice for me. Guilt and gratitude are an unhappy couple. So when I feel some gratitude that’s not required, gratitude for something that had no effect on me, it causes simple joy. It’s the kind of gratitude that those pesky and cloyingly sentimental daytime talk show hosts sell you. And I figured out what it was today.
Now I sit, copper afternoon sun streaming through my office window, struggling to put down the welling emotions within me on this computer screen. I can only focus on the visuals--the gilded, white-framed, blue-purple clouds enhancing the light (always the light!), the bracing cold outside, the tidy office that is finally so after a month of physical upheaval. It’s tough giving context to unfiltered awe and wonder.
So while I meant to write some pedantic screed about pushing onward in the face of difficulty, because no swamp lasts forever, I refuse. I did keep moving forward in my recent dark period, despite sins and setbacks. But whatever effort I put in, whatever respect or consideration I earned--it doesn’t even come close to how I feel today. It doesn’t even belong in the same league. There’s some pride and austere, cold satisfaction in weathering a storm, but there’s grace in the sunlit, grateful glory of this day. There’s grace.
And suddenly I remember this quote with happy resolution:
We must say that the sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone reading a book that interests him; and that all economies, politics, laws, armies, and institutions, save insofar as they prolong and multiply such scenes, are a mere ploughing of the land and sowing of the ocean, a meaningless vanity and vexation of spirit.
