restless hearts
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
-T.S. Eliot
What are we searching for? I honestly don’t know how the majority of people would respond to this question. I’m not even sure how I would answer this myself. I guess a lot of people are searching for someone to love, because we all feel that need, that sense of emptiness at the thought of going home alone, or the thought of going on through life without someone close. I suppose others of us are looking for success, a good job that will provide the necessities and comforts of life, like a place to live and food and a bit of money to burn, etc. And there are those who search for justice, truly devoting themselves to social work, seeking peace in the world. Other people pursue knowledge, seeking to learn, to gain a philosophic or scientific understanding of the world and existence and everything else. There are those who search for God, dedicating their lives – anything they think about, every action they take – to service and to a better understanding of their creator… Lovers, dreamers, activists, workaholics, alcoholics, materialists, artists, and everyone in-between are searching for that thing to make them happy and bring them peace. That thing to give them meaning.
But what does all the searching mean? It feels that somehow any kind of searching is connected somehow, and not just by the simple awareness that life must have a purpose. The pursuit of any purpose, if too self-centered, is meaningless and worthless. Somehow there must be a sense of things – other people, other places, other beings – outside oneself. I guess this is one of those relational things, something that often gets lost in the bigness of life. There are so many activities that vie for my attention, it hardly seems like there is time to accomplish anything. I don’t suppose that’s entirely true, but you probably get the idea. Whether I realize it or not, every bit of my day is prioritized, organized in little chunks of time as to what gets my attention. There is always time, but what am I spending time on?
Spending time searching for something that has meaning. I don’t know quite what that means, but I just scanned back over what I’ve written so far, and that seems to be the best I can do. In order to get anything done, I need to make it a priority. I need to consider it important enough to spend time on. But even that’s not enough, because I could spend every second of the rest of my life writing, scribbling down thoughts, pounding out questions and answers and opinions and arguments… and after all this, have nothing. Because there is no meaning in writing, in the actual task. Meaning comes from what results from the writing. Meaning comes to others when they read what has been written. I suppose this could be said, in slightly modified terms, of almost anything. But to suggest that I do not have time is to suggest that I am dead. It is a shameless conviction to assert that I am powerless in my circumstances. It’s an apathy of the mind and the soul and the spirit, a depression of the will, and it destroys the creative ability of any person. If you take a look at the great people of history, scan the shelves at a bookstore, stroll the galleries of the world, attend a concert, or look at the people you admire most in life… They’re people who are searching, and there seems to be a holy fear in their lives, whether they acknowledge it or not, that the only thing worse than not finding, is not looking at all.
Maybe we search for many things at the same time, but the thing we find is something we didn’t expect at all. Maybe we seek God and a loving relationship and justice and success… But maybe the searching itself is a condition of the soul, a symptom of dissatisfaction, of yearning; there’s something that we’re trying to fill, some ache we’re trying to assuage, or some desire we’re attempting to satisfy. If searching is the active participation in life, then it’s also the way I work to repair the condition of my soul. I guess Jesus said something like this, that those who seek would find, but I wonder if our searching can only take us so far. Maybe it just brings us to an awareness of our dissatisfaction; it just creates the questions that can’t really be answered until we finally surrender. Until we consent to God in an active act of passive surrender. Maybe purpose constricts and limits our surrender. The longer we search and the better we are at asking questions and performing the activities that we feel bring us worth and create meaning in our lives, the harder it is to relinquish the control we feel that we have gained. It’s a scary thing to let go, to surrender control of my life. To let go my dreams and desires, the precious things I hold close to my heart, and to lay down my life creates a feeling of terror, a feeling that I am forfeiting the very things that make me human. I am letting go choice and control, and the only thing that seems to be left is hope. Hope that there is something better, something to be gained by giving up what I have. And our surrender isn’t the type that destroys, as we fear it will be, but it is a surrender that brings life, that brings meaning. Because it is borne of love.
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
-T.S. Eliot
What are we searching for? I honestly don’t know how the majority of people would respond to this question. I’m not even sure how I would answer this myself. I guess a lot of people are searching for someone to love, because we all feel that need, that sense of emptiness at the thought of going home alone, or the thought of going on through life without someone close. I suppose others of us are looking for success, a good job that will provide the necessities and comforts of life, like a place to live and food and a bit of money to burn, etc. And there are those who search for justice, truly devoting themselves to social work, seeking peace in the world. Other people pursue knowledge, seeking to learn, to gain a philosophic or scientific understanding of the world and existence and everything else. There are those who search for God, dedicating their lives – anything they think about, every action they take – to service and to a better understanding of their creator… Lovers, dreamers, activists, workaholics, alcoholics, materialists, artists, and everyone in-between are searching for that thing to make them happy and bring them peace. That thing to give them meaning.
But what does all the searching mean? It feels that somehow any kind of searching is connected somehow, and not just by the simple awareness that life must have a purpose. The pursuit of any purpose, if too self-centered, is meaningless and worthless. Somehow there must be a sense of things – other people, other places, other beings – outside oneself. I guess this is one of those relational things, something that often gets lost in the bigness of life. There are so many activities that vie for my attention, it hardly seems like there is time to accomplish anything. I don’t suppose that’s entirely true, but you probably get the idea. Whether I realize it or not, every bit of my day is prioritized, organized in little chunks of time as to what gets my attention. There is always time, but what am I spending time on?
Spending time searching for something that has meaning. I don’t know quite what that means, but I just scanned back over what I’ve written so far, and that seems to be the best I can do. In order to get anything done, I need to make it a priority. I need to consider it important enough to spend time on. But even that’s not enough, because I could spend every second of the rest of my life writing, scribbling down thoughts, pounding out questions and answers and opinions and arguments… and after all this, have nothing. Because there is no meaning in writing, in the actual task. Meaning comes from what results from the writing. Meaning comes to others when they read what has been written. I suppose this could be said, in slightly modified terms, of almost anything. But to suggest that I do not have time is to suggest that I am dead. It is a shameless conviction to assert that I am powerless in my circumstances. It’s an apathy of the mind and the soul and the spirit, a depression of the will, and it destroys the creative ability of any person. If you take a look at the great people of history, scan the shelves at a bookstore, stroll the galleries of the world, attend a concert, or look at the people you admire most in life… They’re people who are searching, and there seems to be a holy fear in their lives, whether they acknowledge it or not, that the only thing worse than not finding, is not looking at all.
Maybe we search for many things at the same time, but the thing we find is something we didn’t expect at all. Maybe we seek God and a loving relationship and justice and success… But maybe the searching itself is a condition of the soul, a symptom of dissatisfaction, of yearning; there’s something that we’re trying to fill, some ache we’re trying to assuage, or some desire we’re attempting to satisfy. If searching is the active participation in life, then it’s also the way I work to repair the condition of my soul. I guess Jesus said something like this, that those who seek would find, but I wonder if our searching can only take us so far. Maybe it just brings us to an awareness of our dissatisfaction; it just creates the questions that can’t really be answered until we finally surrender. Until we consent to God in an active act of passive surrender. Maybe purpose constricts and limits our surrender. The longer we search and the better we are at asking questions and performing the activities that we feel bring us worth and create meaning in our lives, the harder it is to relinquish the control we feel that we have gained. It’s a scary thing to let go, to surrender control of my life. To let go my dreams and desires, the precious things I hold close to my heart, and to lay down my life creates a feeling of terror, a feeling that I am forfeiting the very things that make me human. I am letting go choice and control, and the only thing that seems to be left is hope. Hope that there is something better, something to be gained by giving up what I have. And our surrender isn’t the type that destroys, as we fear it will be, but it is a surrender that brings life, that brings meaning. Because it is borne of love.
posted by chris at 13:57
2 Comments:
I'm afraid to comment about your latest post for two reasons. One, I find myself incapable of adding anything of substance to your beautiful words. And two, I realize that I am the first to leave comments, and mine will potentially be seen by all, which is somewhat frightening.
So, I will simply say that your writing gets better everytime I read, and I miss you my friend. We need to talk.
Much love,
Colter
oh, to be past the awareness of dissatisfaction and onto contentment, or maybe peace. mature thoughts for the discomfort of post-adolescence in a wandering generation. maybe if the search isn't too frantic, but is accepted and guiding and honest, then the search itself is lovely of its own accord? or so i hope.
sarah
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