Silence and Light

It is that too-transient time of day, when the clouds are lavender and the horizon blushes. Standing in the kitchen, adjusting the temperature of the oven as a quiche bakes, I catch my breath when I turn and see the light. The sun has poured itself in through the front windows, through the living room where the rabbits are sleeping, and through the kitchen, to wash up against the closed bedroom door. Its white paint glows. It is gold, honey, amber, then briefly pumpkin. And then it is gone.

Sunset comes later and later, and I write less and less. When summer comes, I shrink from the computer, from my notebooks. The grass is green in the park, the tomatoes are sprouting in the garden, and I feel as wordless as a plant. I just want to soak up the sun and store it away under my skin, turn it into food for a future winter.

Could it be my reluctance to write stems from a fear of contemplating meanings and committing myself to a position? a fear of exposure? (Writing is so hard right now. I started this post at sunset two weeks ago, got too uncomfortable, and left it languishing until today.)

A few weeks ago, I spent seven days in the Adirondacks at an Intervarsity camp. Being there without O. for a week, I found myself to be a person I'd forgotten: still needing my sleep and my solitude, but steady in those needs, not oscillating, and willing and able to meet new people, form friendships, be useful, serve, pray, lead. Confident, as I'd forgotten how to be. As I'd forgotten I used to be.

(Ironic that lately I've been pondering the necessity, indeed the virtue, of remembering. And here I had forgotten something so fundamental (though so complex) as who I am, how it feels to be me.)

At camp I also realized that somehow, sometime in the past 11 months, I swore off exposing myself to O. in so many of the ways that count. I got hurt doing things, and then I promised myself I wouldn't get hurt that way again. What that meant was that I stopped singing when I thought O. was listening; I stopped telling him what I think Bible passages mean; I stopped praying out loud with him. Deep down, I took a vow of silence. I will not speak, I said. I said, I refuse to be exposed.

The Highly Sensitive Person In Love, my most helpful relationship guide, catalogs the fears that can create fear of intimacy. Fear of exposure and rejection, fear of angry attacks, fear of abandonment, fear of losing control, fear of your destructive impulses, fear of engulfment, fear of commitment... The fear of exposure is by far my greatest fear in any relationship. It's always easier for me to be the listening ear and the comforting shoulder, lovingly caring for the exposure of someone else's pain and weakness, than for me to be the crying eye and the naked heart. I would rather listen than speak, I would rather be silent than be true.

 So I have been silent.

But "when I kept silent, my bones wasted away." And now, finally understanding what I have been doing, I am trying to remember, and I am trying to speak.

Starting here.

Writing, I break my silence.
Speaking, I expose myself.
Here I am. I am here.

Hiding

I've been talking with a friend lately about his habit of hiding. Not answering the uncomfortable questions, avoiding work by reading things online, using chocolate as a quick-fix: hiding, hiding from the truth.

I confronted this friend about his hiding. I berated and exhorted him, I explained why it's harmful, what kind of priorities it reveals (self-worship, at the bottom: refusal to face the truth about one's self). It was a long conversation, and my friend went away chastised. I took for granted that I had the higher moral ground. Then the next day, I noticed myself hiding, exactly the way my friend does. There was an uncomfortable truth or several lurking under the surface of my consciousness, and I knew I ought to dig it up and give it up to the Lord of my soul, "who forgives all my sins and heals all my diseases" (Ps. 103:2). But I didn't want to.

I've been confronting this friend about a number of his bad psychospiritual habits, and I keep noticing the same tendencies in myself shortly after those conversations.

Honestly, it is so stinking hard not to hide. There are a million ways to do it. I hide my fear by being angry, or I hide my anger by being afraid. I hide my disagreement by asking questions instead of speaking out, or by not speaking at all. I hide from despair by doing "fun" things--watching T.V., reading books. I hide from all my feelings by doing "productive" things--assembling furniture, working on my resume, researching nutrition. I hide from O. by not answering his emails and text messages. I hide from feelings of disconnection by hugging him and ignoring my anger or sadness. I hide from the demands of my body (food! water! exercise!) by engaging my mind or my emotions; I hide from the demands of my emotions by feeding and indulging my body.

The trouble is, hiding from truth is hiding from God. This is folly. In the Garden, Adam and Eve, ashamed, refused to come when God called them. They deluded themselves into thinking He couldn't see them. I tell myself this is totally different from what I'm doing, but that too is a delusion. I keep avoiding truths, and the Truth. But what I really need, underneath it all and above it all and beyond it all, is the Truth: Jesus, the Way, the Truth, the Life.

"Surely You desire truth in the innermost parts." O my Lord, cleanse me. I pray in faith with the Psalmist: "Cleanse me with hyssop and I will be clean; wash me and I will be whiter than snow." (Psalm 51:6, 7) O God, help.