Hello Darkness, my old friend

The following is not a replication of what I'm feeling. Rather, it's an abstract statement of what one might feel when despair overcomes optimism. Sometimes, we can succumb to the darkest of what life can offer. When we do, we might feel and speak like this:

It's a dark and dank place, where light once met dark and dark won. I can feel the mist of despair on my shoulders and I can sense the stench of bitterness that emanates out of every pore of that darkest of places and lands squarely on my tongue and cheek.

I can't see you there even when you're everywhere.

I can feel your presence but I can't touch you.

You fly at me at the speed of light but you move so slow that I can see the subtle curve of your flight.

You are the one I've tried to avoid all of my life, but now you are the one pulling me into the hole from which nobody escapes.

I hear the cries of those who have crossed over, but I cannot hear their voices. There is only a low hum of radio noise from which words don't emanate but to which all knowledge can be applied.

I'm talking about loneliness...and bitterness...and all of the lamentations that can fit on the head of a pin.

I am lost. I'm not dead, but I should be. I'm not alive, but I could be. I'm not here, and I shouldn't be.

I'm sitting here listening to the sounds of silence and the noise is deafening.

I continually search for the switch that turns out the light even though it's so dark that I cannot discern anything other than shape and movement.

The details are gone. The memories have slipped away. I am nowhere now and that's where I want to stay.

Goodnight good friends. I'll see you along the infinite way.

........................................

Now, that was depressing. That is no place anyone wants to go. But, I've found, over the years, that if we can conjure up a positive image of the past and dwell there for awhile, our mood may tend to move more toward neutral and we can then see a light that can lead us back to a semblance of normalcy. Here is an image that I sometimes conjure up and enjoy in order to get me back from the edge of darkness.

I am eight years old. It's a crisp autumn day. The trees haven't yet shed their leaves, but they are bursting with color and seem eager to get to the next phase of their destiny.

I happen out of my house and stumble onto this scene which seems straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I'm standing on a hill overlooking a verdant tapestry of West Virginia flora and fauna. The beauty of the scene is almost overwhelming. They say that one cannot fathom too much beauty, but when a scene approaches perfection, one can wish for no more...and no less. Too much more may deaden the senses. A little less can quickly return us to the normalcy of an everyday.

But what makes this scene any different than any bucolic fall day? It's my family which also occupies a piece of the place. I see my grandmother standing over a huge iron pot which is perilously perched over an open flame. She is using a giant spoon to stir what I perceive to be freshly picked apples which she is slowly turning into apple butter. Close by, I see my mother hanging clean wet clothes on a thin rope line with wooden clothes pins. It seems that every piece that she hangs up emphasizes a new palette and instantly enhances the complexity and intensity of the overall hue and saturation of the myriad colors which make up the scene.

And, I look up to see my father through the window of the garage. He is piddling under the hood of his pick up truck. His shirt is dirty with grease and his forehead is covered in sweat. But, he has a wry smile on his face and seems to be enjoying himself immensely. He is a truck driver by trade, but a superhuman hero to me. In my eyes, he can't do anything wrong and he knows everything about everything. I only wish to someday be half the person he is now.

I suddenly take a deep interest in the walls of the old garage. The cinder blocks which were used to construct the building have been white washed. Up close to the roof, the walls are still somewhat white and presentable. However, as one gazes down toward the ground, it's obvious that the garage needs a good cleaning. In fact, at ground level, the white wash has been completely washed away. But, now, when I look at the building, I don't see those little imperfections. I only see through that one lone window and perceive the garage as a conduit to the happiness of my father. It's not the block and mortar which define that space. It is the special people which occupy the structure that gives it character and, in reality, the beauty that I perceive.

I often think back to that scene and when I do, I instantly become calm and feel a serenity which envelopes my thoughts and digs out all of the negativity I may have been experiencing. I can fully imagine that, for at least one moment, I had found the meaning of happiness and contentment. I had known the reason for living and the need to continue to experience each day because we never know when beauty will reappear and make us feel complete contentment.

So, to me, the trick is to face up to the darkness by remembering the light and the beauty that we have all experienced and know that we can enjoy again. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday soon.

We shouldn't want to miss it.