Thursday, March 5, 2015

Grant Hudson

         My experience of this universe is one of frustrating contradiction between order and chaos. My small old house house stands as a modest triumph of the application of geometric laws humans developed to establish order in the chaotic search for sanctuary. This house seems still and stable, warm, and its angles appear to cooperate in harmony to produce a structure that fosters some peace in my mind.

And yet a passing glance reveals crookedness. Rot.
Puzzling diversity of color on a monochrome wall. Holes.

         And, in the middle of the night, when I am sleeping soundly next to my wife as only one who feels truly protected from chaos could, cold water pours down on my wife's face through a tiny hole in the ceiling, and she cries out in horror for a moment, as our illusion of protection is shattered.

         I recognize that I stand on the shoulders of generations of my ancestors who worked tirelessly, suffered great hardship, and pondered endlessly all the ways they could shield me, their precious, frail descendant, from any pain, from any insecurity. And they fail. Again and again, their work proves itself to be incomplete, their ingenuity rife with ignorance everlasting. And in the face of that failure, I must ponder my role in this long struggle that spans generations. I must decide if I will put faith in the seeming illusion that is order, and attempt to protect my descendants from pain.

         In my confusion I turn to the rest of nature, attempt to step out of the daydream of human control, and hope to find in it an order that is perhaps more divine, perhaps something that has, over the eons, reached a tight balance that has squeezed out pain and uncertainty. I feel that I glimpse balance, feel that I see a harmony between the leaf, the dew drop, and the caterpillar. But I step back, I see a half-dead baby bird struggling to grasp a life it can no longer hold, could never hold. I see a tree limb shredded by a cruel wind. I see the puzzling diversity of the dirt, full of wretched rot.
         From the material God has given me to build a reality in this moment, my mind has chosen this insecurity. My mind has fabricated a sense of hopeless vulnerability, eschewing my gifts: freedom from disease, freedom from hunger, freedom from dehydration. Freedom from loneliness.

And I have the audacity to ask God for peace.

         My father-in-law once said that evil is the bi-product of freedom of choice at the sub-atomic level.

         I once said that that even God does not understand evil, and worries about it just as much as we, trying to perceive its purpose.

         But I find now in my dark reality creation that evil is not real. Demons mean well. The rot of my roof is pushing towards cleansing change, salvific evolution. The hideous biome that is my flesh is cycling towards fluid beauty.

         God is perfectly caught in divine confusion, the space where disparate ideas seem to be dancing wildly with no regard for one another. The moment before the end of infinity, where all order is illusory, and cacophony is peaceful. God is the baby bird, drawing its last breath over the whole span of time.

         And when I crawl out of this dark reality creation, I will perceive persecution. I will perceive that my movement towards good is obstructed.

It is.

         My good will never be all good. The rigid house of cards I build from my ideas will always lead towards death.

         In the middle of the cruel wind, where disparate shreds of organic material dance wildly with no regard for one another, God sings.

Hear it, embrace death, and you will know everlasting life.

When you let that cruel wind blow down the house of cards that is your life, what do you see?


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