March 13, 2004

The Character of Faith

Only children, madmen, and savages truly understand the "in-between" world of spiritual truth.
-Paul Klee

To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.
- Thomas Aquinas

Before this year, I'd never bought a piece of large furniture in my life. Some people might argue my apartment was filled with leftovers and throw-aways and unwanted dregs. I would not be one of those people; I thought I had an apartment full of character.

My kitchen table had a broken leg that responded to my mood. On my bad days, the ones where I would sit on the floor, looking around for a reason to breath, the leg would fall off, and the table would collapse. I'd swear, and scream, and put it back together. Sometimes, you just have to pick up the pieces.

My bed was old and oversized. A queen, I think. I'd always wanted a big bed, but I had a small apartment, the first one I lived in, and the bed took up 85% of the room. (My bookshelf swallowed another 10%, and my lack of caring caused the remaining 5% to be covered in clothes.) I'd lay on my bed on Sunday mornings-- the one day when I got to sleep in, the one day I worked less than 10 hours-- and stare out the skylight. The sun would eventually reach the midpoint in the sky, shine down on me, and make me uncomfortably hot. Sometimes, you just have to roll over.

My sofa was old, too, but otherwise functional. I laid on it, I slept on it, I sat on it, I stood on it. What more could I ask of it? The arms of the sofa were too big, though. They were monster arms, rising too high, sloping out too far, always getting in the way. I moved the sofa here, I moved the sofa there, but the arms were always annoying. Eventually, I stopped trying to fit it to my wants and needs. Sometimes, you just have to give up.

My coffee table was wooden and stained. It was the good sort of stain, though-- the sort of stain that protects and beautifies and shines. Of all my pieces of furniture, this was my favorite. Of all my pieces of furniture, this was the last piece I acquired. I kept a great many things on my coffee table: magazines, drugstore receipts, dirty plates and cups, paper journals, bouquets of flowers, bottles of fruit juice and memories and alcohol. Over the years, I rested my feet on that table, I rested my head on that table, I rested my life on that table. It was perfect. Sometimes, you just have to keep waiting until something perfect comes your way.

I have no old, free, leftover furniture here in Vermont. I have a futon that's functional. I have a bookcase that's bare. I have a table that's typical. I feel at home, here, but not in a home. The small degrees of separation seem important once in a while, seem like they matter-- should matter-- to me. I wonder why, though. Why should I miss my misery, my unhappiness, my incompleteness, my old, dainty furniture? I don't know. But, sometimes, I miss my life[ ]less ordinary.

I think for a while longer, though, and I'm uncertain again. At home, but not a home? I don't have the things, the objects, the pieces of furniture. But did I find something else, instead? Can't what makes me feel at home also make me feel like I have a home?

This term, this past month, this week-- I don't know when, exactly, but sometime, somehow, somewhere along the way, all the pieces came together, in a subtle and indescribable way, and my life feels complete in a complex fashion. I'm happy with where I am, what I've done, and where I'm going. The future offers more promise than the past; somehow I've turned around; I can see, I can consider, and I can live.

There are problems in my life, still, to be sure. There are pieces I'm trying to pick up off the ground and reassemble into something that broke. There are mornings when I roll over and refuse to meet the day head-on. There are looks I see in the mirror, when I'm all alone at night, and tired-- looks that say, "I want to let go," "I want to give up."

But outside of those moments, and within them, a confluence of conditions have created, or perhaps reawakened, something here, something inside of me-- something I've been wanting for a long time, something perfect I've been waiting for: faith.

Posted by Sean at March 13, 2004 02:35 AM

Comments

Posted by: Liene at March 14, 2004 12:23 PM

Posted by: Sean at March 14, 2004 12:41 PM