Not the First Time

Everyone that starts a blog has a certain ceremony they use to christen their website. To get it started right. To get a blank piece of paper and press the led point down for the first time. To burn all those other crumpled heaps that were supposed to be the first time. To do things right.

Well, this is not my first. This is not even the best of my first. This is a haphazard project somewhere along the way--a middle-aged life (as a metaphor) too late to start over and too early to give up. This is what organized people hate--not quite systematized, not quite random, but somewhere in between. And this is where most of life is lived--at least mine anyway. See, the ironic thing is that as we have chased after the ideals of perfection, we've shirked and distanced ourselves from every good thing that we have at the present. It's ironic because I don't think anyone gets it. In a good college on your way to a good job? It's not good enough because you're not there yet. Married with a lovely wife and children? Well, you're not making enough money...and someone else is always more lovely. Working at a ministry that is reaching out to the hurting? You could do it better, so you start your own. The problem with a perfect world, though, is that there is no one to share it with. No one will ever understand you completely. No one will ever be able to tap into your dreams and emotions quite like you can. The only way to get that is by yourself, and to be by yourself.

I've thought about this a lot because I want that perfection. I want everything to fall with the exact subtle grace I envision in my mind. I want the freedom to stretch my mind to the limits, to be exactly where I want to be. But I don't want to be alone. Maybe the ideal is still possible--money can buy a stone castle in Ireland, rolling hills and meadows, a quiet study, sophisticated people. But I've come to the realization that it'll never be quite right--whether you're okay with that depends on your religious persuasion. I am.

I use to think that it was the most vain and meaningless thing to do something that wouldn't get any recognition. To read a poem that only the air hears. To sing a song that will never be remembered. It was in the legacy that the art reveled--it was in the legacy that the art was celebrated. We want to be remembered. We want to be understood. We have a lot to understand and remember about both those things. Now about that bottle of champagne.