I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.
(Kurt Vonnegut, from his first novel, Player Piano)
I don’t usually consider myself an on-the-edge sort of person, or even “edgy.” But I like the characterization. And I like people who are such. What might seem edgy to me could be commonplace or downright dull for you – or vice versa. What risk looks and feels like for me might be radically different than for you. And even what I’ve been writing about the past few days – desire – can take on a myriad of form, expression, and impact.
Apparently the “edge” is shifting sand.
Back to the desert.
I’m aware that even the mention of such, this talk of the desert, may feel edgy to some. Why speak of desolate places of longing? Why talk of struggle? Why invite a “staying” in a landscape of such discomfort? Why name shadow, disappointment, or harm? There are many reasons, but paramount to them all is this one: I can’t not.
I can’t not speak of longing, struggle and discomfort because it is woven into the very fiber of my story. I can’t not name shadow, disappointment, and harm because it exists around me every day. I can’t not acknowledge the truth in my life, my heart, my faith, my doubt. On the edge? Maybe. But if so, I’m good with it.
Before you think I live in deeply melancholy or horrendous circumstances, let me set the record straight. On a day-to-day basis I think I’m pretty normal. I get up early. I straighten up the kitchen and living room from the night before. I make coffee. I drink coffee. I answer emails. I blog. I Tweet. I update my FB status. I wake up my daughters. I get all three of us out various doors at various times. I work. I eat. I cook. I drink wine. I date (occasionally). I pay bills. I sleep (eventually). I worry. I celebrate. I argue. I teach. I talk. I laugh. I desire. I love. I live.
On-the-edge means letting the good, the bad, and the ugly co-mingle. Not forcing the dark things down, shoving them aside, wishing they would go away (or just thinking a whole bunch of really good thoughts in an attempt to stack the deck). Rather, I let truth – no matter its form or affect – waft in and out of my routine activities, my casual conversations, my meandering thoughts. Sort of like sand in my shoes after a day at the beach…or in the desert. A tiny bit uncomfortable, but a reminder of where I’ve been and the place to which I want to return.
Desert, as I’ve stated before, is home. It is the place in which I know both rest and exhaustion, grief and joy, desire and disappointment. It is reality. I can’t not go there. I can’t not stay. I’ll let you decide as to whether or not it’s on the edge.
But one thing you should know: the view’s fantastic.
Here,
in the center of my chest,
their constant dwelling:the persistent yearning
the insistent craving
the unbidden imagining
the desire awakening
the daydream, the nightdream
the reverie unfolding:
the language of longing
drawing me home.(Jan Richardson, In Wisdom’s Path)
For your reflection:
- Within these season-of-Lent posts, I’ve been speaking much of the desert. It’s not all parched ground and endless traversing. Can you see how naming the places of pain and struggle in your own life – past or present – might actually invite the desert’s wild beauty? Your own?
- Describe what “edgy” looks/feels like for you when you recognize it in others. Is that something you want for yourself? Why or why not?
- What might living on the edge look/feel like for you? Who would be most impacted?
- Can you take a measured step closer to the edge? Name that. Incorporate that. Risk that. The view is worth it – I promise.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Edgy is truth-telling… about who I am, where I’ve been, what I want and where I want to go… It is acknowledging what is true in the past and present places and events in my life. It is grieving the losses and celebrating the victories and sometimes,,, grieving the victories and celebrating the losses.
Yes. Yes. Yes, Rebecca!