Trash-Talking the Maker

The other day, I wrote a sincere email to God, and sent it at His legitimate email address. By legitimate, I mean to say that there is no one I can think of who should own the address god@gmail.com but God Himself. You might disagree, but I think I have a case.

Well, God might have answered or She might not have. They are inscrutable with the answering and the getting on in Godly matters. I am still here and (knock on wood) so are my loved ones. My mother had a heart attack yesterday but it was a minor one, and now she’s in the hospital, where she has the best chance of getting the best care.

Yesterday, around the time my mother was feeling chest pains (unbeknownst to me), I was hammering out an angry letter to that same God I had emailed just the other day. I knew the email would probably bounce, and in fact my vitriol was such that I really had no desire to send it into some archive, where God could (nonetheless) read it whenever She so chose. I didn’t need that stuff on record – even though it certainly now is.

I won’t go into the details. I was having a meltdown. I was questioning my purpose here and also questioning Here. What’s Here for? Why are we in it, in the first place? Why is there so much crap Here with us? The suffering, the anxiety, the injustice, the colossal shenanigans. My language in that email was more colourful. I let God have it with both barrels. And my mother had a heart attack in another province.

I am skating on thin ice, blaming God for that. For all I know, that minor heart attack got my mother medical help and attention before it turned into something bigger – and it would have, gone unchecked. God or no God, my mother was given a second chance. I blamed God for being cruel and uncaring, but He didn’t act that way when He might have, to prove some point to some mortal like me.

So I’m feeling a bit calmer now. Sort of. I think I needed to finally say what I felt in my heart to God in that most rattled moment, in that draft email that I thankfully did not send, but also thankfully did draft out in full. It was cathartic to do that. The God I believe in understands that being Human is frightening and hard sometimes, even when you have it comparatively well. I don’t know what we’re Here for, but I know the struggle has a point. Don’t ask me to prove that – that’s not how faith works at all.

Greater Than Less-Than

I am by all indications greater than the sum of my parts, which are of some great number, however I might wish to carve myself up.

I have trifurcated (nice!) my blogging self into a trinity of me’s. Why? Because I can’t always decide who best to be.

There is no great subterfuge intended in this, I simply like trying on different hats to see how that might change the words coming out of the single head hidden beneath them.

It turns out, despite having been into roleplaying games for most of my life, in the end I am mostly the same character, just with a different shirt on, depending on my mood. So too with my attempts at writing from different URLs: I am still essentially me, however much I might at times not seem to wish to be.

One thing that each one of my I’s have been struggling with these days is how to see clearly the Good in myself. This is no joke: I have spent my whole life trying to be good (I assume I have succeeded to some degree, but by whose compass?), and valuing goodness in others, and willing to concede that I always have more work to do… and yet, I give myself no breaks.

The other day, after smoking a joint (I suppose it was just the right kind, mixed with the right combination of sugar/no-sugar and vitamins and preceding mood (kids: still don’t do drugs)), I had the epiphany that maybe I was actually not only not a bad person, but maybe even a really pretty OK one. Ok… maybe a good one. A good person, I mean. Maybe I was that thing that I just said.

This is how hard it is to pay myself a compliment, right now. I have been overtrained, I think by religion and also experience, to be very wary of pride.

I might be taking this wariness a wee bit too far, admittedly. When I can readily imagine that a violent criminal might be redeemable, but that I (deep down) probably am not, somehow… well, that seems a bit of a disingenuous thing to think about any decent person – even if it is your own self. The setting of different standards of OK between others and oneself is at best irrational. And probably also dysfunctional. In fact, I know that last thing to be true.

I used the term ‘probably am not‘, not to mean that I have dark secrets or a dark past or even a dark outlook on life: I just worry about failing as a decent human being.

I also do not mean, in any case, to judge at what point any person crosses the line between redeemable and irredeemable. I think that point might be up to them. And so I point to this: Anybody can come to feel as though they are to be judged by a different scale than everybody else.

Maybe you make a choice in one moment, to be lazy with your time, and somebody suffers a setback because of that. With a little imagination, you might imagine yourself to be a villain, then and there.

And that is where I’d need to stop you, before you started down that road of self-recrimination, once again. A person can’t equip themselves for climbing while wallowing in the what ifs.

So anyway, the other day I got to experience, what, maybe two hours of almost feeling like I really liked who I was and where I had managed to get myself to, up to this present point.

This feeling was actually slightly disconcerting, because it didn’t feel like me… I had been (temporarily, as it turns out) replaced by a levelled-up version of myself – one that was able to tell his own self-doubt to talk to the hand.

I suppose that glimpse though was enough. The next day, I found myself writing out a list of things I have done right, and not too late, and not not entirely unselfishly.

Good on you if you can decipher this hand’s scrawls…

I want to tell you something. You are also better than you probably think. I mean, you are probably a bona-fide Good Person, like I’ve been led to believe I might even be.

Let me explain (while I still have an inkling of how this feels, to feel it about oneself):

Do you recognize True Good in other people, ever? That already means you are one of those people. You can forgive yourself for not being 100% finished at being 100% Perfectly Good right now.

You need to know this about yourself, the way I really needed to know it about myself, that other night when I did know it, for a couple of strangely unfamiliar hours. I will chase that feeling, now that I know it’s out there… and I’ll promise you that you’ll find it too, if you go looking.

You’re already looking, aren’t you?

Maybe now?

C’mon, I know you can find it in you. You’re already there.

How to Hope

Hopefully this doesn’t mean I’m blocked

An Eventually-Open Letter to God

I thought to email God this morning, but the letter bounced. Maybe God’s inbox is full. I can imagine it’s difficult to achieve Inbox Zero when you’re God.

Writing the email made me feel a bit better anyway, since as far as I know, God’s already received it, inbox or no inbox. He/She doesn’t need the Internets to connect the way we seem to.


To God@gmail.com,


Apologies if I have not contacted the actual God, but instead somebody who thought to take God’s email address, for whatever purpose. I suppose you should be used to receiving emails to God by now, whatever the case may be, and whomever you are. Perhaps you can forward this to God, if you happen to know His or Her true email address:


Dear God,


I am struggling with challenges both big and small. The world seems a bit too bent out of shape. I have been given so many gifts, but on any given day, I seem to make good use of but a few. It would seem the world needs us all to use our gifts more wisely, and soon, and in concert with each other. I am unsure if I am doing my part yet. 


I work every day, and I tell myself I’ll get to doing my part to save the world once I have time, but I don’t know when that will be. What’s the point of staying gainfully employed if there is no world waiting for us in our future? I have great hope, but sometimes it’s difficult to stay optimistic. I am plodding along, like so many, without a clear idea of what to support, or otherwise rebel against.


My immediate family needs my immediate help. My community does as well. So too, my country, and then the world. In some sort of order. Despite all of this need, I also feel the need to address my own: a need to get enough sleep, to get some fresh air and sunshine (lockdowns be damned), to read, to write, and to dream. All of these needs – every one – seems pressing for my attention first and foremost, at any given moment. 


But I have only one timeline, as far as I can tell. I don’t know most days where to focus my time, God. I am in front of screens too much; I am using too much energy as we speak; I am buying too many things that I don’t need; I am reading and absorbing information indiscriminately, as though learning alone can solve real problems… I am praying every day and night, and now I’m praying to the Internet. I need guidance. I need a map.


What I feel I need today is a mentor in how to have hope – somebody who is older than I am, and still feels hope, in spite of that. I need to know how to feel hope so that I can pass that feeling on to those who are younger than I am. I am a middle-aged man, stuck in the middle of a life, without a clear idea of where my own mentors have gone. They all seem scared of viruses, immigration, technology, and change. They’ve already seen too much, but I need them now. Just one.


I need to know how to find my way. I haven’t learned how yet. I want to know what to say to my stepkids, about why they are here, now, on this planet full of troubles. I don’t know what to tell them. I’m scared I won’t figure it out in time to validate why I’m here, or help anybody the way I know I was meant to do. I’m just using up space – I want to earn these gifts. I want to save the world. I need God. We all do. 


Please send help, and thank you for all the Things.


Love,
Mike

Everything is Almost Full

I’m having one of those days, at the moment, as it happens. Maybe one of those months, or seasons. Maybe even one of those years.

I’m fifty years old – my glass, by now, is most certainly either entirely half-full, or else entirely half-drunk and done.

Depending on my point of view, and what I want to think about glasses and metaphors.

It seems to me, these days, that all of my things are running down, or out, or hot, or otherwise away from me: My computers and virtual computers are all full-up with things; my bank account appears to be perpetually dry; my tax returns are never on time; my clothes are falling slowly apart around and about me; our roof leaks; my homework is soon due.

All of my varying deadlines and thresholds are looming a bit too large.

Everything is almost full. Almost over. Almost too late.

Almost too much.

This is what it feels like in my brain right now, is what I mean [what I meant eleven hours ago, in any case, when I started to think-and-then-write-and-then-rethink this… and then stopped it all for long enough for me to feel better].

My brain is always telling me some kind of story about what’s happening. I’m not sure who gave this brain that job, but it takes it pretty seriously.

I’ve started to take it on faith that, no matter how I’m doing – or what I’m doing, or where I’m doing it, or why – my brain will go on faithfully monitoring the progress and the lack of progress and telling me that things are coming to an end, by gum, and so I’d better get started.

Then the Universe (often via the Internet and also dreams), conspires to agree with it, feeding my brain messages that it will make of whatever it will. And it does! Boy howdy.

Ever have ever one of those days? Ha! Of course you have. We all have, haven’t we?

And if you haven’t yet had one (and you are a mortal Human being like I am), then you are probably too young yet to be reading… and anyhow, you certainly will have one of those days, one of these days. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll have many.

If you’re really lucky, I’ll wager, you’ll have a lifetime of a very many kind of days.

I wish that for you: to have a full, full life of a great many days.


It was the morning when I started to write this, feeling overwhelmed by the stories told to me by my own brain.

And then this, my day, happened… and it all went better than I thought it might (and who would have thought?)

And I am more than ok right now, at this, the end of my new latest day.

Everything is perfectly full, and also perfectly well.