Finding solace in times of darkness
The year 2020 has left me feeling deeply tired in body, mind, and spirit. The precious few who pay any attention to what I write in this space may note that my last publication was nearly two months ago.
So very many thoughts and feelings. So few words to put to them, much less the energy to do so.
And now, we’ve entered what I refer to as the Season of Dread. It’s the time of year when summer has already long given way to autumn and the inevitability of a long winter ahead. The shadows are longer, the nights colder, the creep of darkness harder to ignore, the captivating vibrancy of fall foliage fading all too quickly as all beautiful things do on this side of eternity.
Moreover, as is the case every year at this time, the clocks have just rolled back and the skies will turn pitch black by 5 p.m. But this year, it’s happening almost immediately prior to an election that has all along felt like peering over the edge of an abyss. The symbolism couldn’t be more pronounced.
Dread indeed. Of course, this is how it feels in nearly every election year, at least for me. But in 2020, it feels so much more acute. Everything feels so much more acute.
I’m tired—tired of isolation. Tired of a weighty sense of existential loneliness that has always been my uninvited (sometimes only) companion, but especially so these days. Tired of an unescapable feeling of futility in all things. Tired of the nagging conviction that, even at my still relatively young age, I somehow missed the boat long ago for true connection and purpose.
Sometimes I find that the best outlet for my emotional and spiritual experience is song rather than just written word. Right now, Kansas (the band, not the state, to be clear) is helping me out in this regard:
Same old song
Just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do
Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see
So is Green Day:
I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don’t know where it goes
But it’s home to me, and I walk alone
In a way, these kinds of lyrics, melancholy though they may be, are comforting. At least I know that I’m not the only human being who has ever felt these kinds of sentiments. They’re timeless — old as humanity itself.
So, what am I doing about it? Well, there’s not much to do—as in, not much to remedy. It’s more a matter of coping. Here are some of my strategies for that — some healthy and sustainable, others not at all.
Alcohol
I love drinking; always have. In particular, I love the taste of beer and wine. I also associate it with warmth and togetherness with people I love. So needless to say, I love the way it makes me feel — at least in the moment.
But therein lies the most critical qualifier. I’m well past the point in my life when I can drink significant quantities of alcohol in any given evening and not feel like absolute shit the next day. For that reason, believe it or not, my volume of alcohol consumption during this pandemic has been drastically lower than it would have been, say, seven years ago when I was deep in my graduate program in Seattle and dealing with all sorts of other hard feelings.
Alcohol can be like the seductive lover who lures you into a one-night stand, where an evening of indulgence invariably gives way to a physical and mental hangover of unescapable malaise. Like a dysfunctional relationship, or even an idol, alcohol is easy to love, but alcohol never loves you back in the same way. That’s why it has to be taken in measured doses—and if I cross the threshold, I always pay for it.
For that reason, I’ll probably never be an alcoholic. My body simply could never handle it. But I understand fully what leads people to alcoholism and other sorts of chemical dependency or non-chemical addiction. Sometimes, the urge to just check out — even just for a few hours — can be very, very strong.
Don’t get me wrong — I love a cocktail or two as much as the next guy. It just cannot be a medicating device or long-term coping strategy.
Sometimes, the urge to just check out — even just for a few hours — can be very, very strong.
Running
A decade ago, I never would have imagined myself to be a runner of any sort. Today, it’s a rigorous routine for me. I’m surely not game for high-profile marathons, and I do it neither because I’m competitive or especially fast (I’m not) nor because it’s easy (it’s not). I do it because it pays dividends for my mental and physical health.
I’ve taken up running four miles a day on Chicago’s Lakefront Trail, which takes me south of the Museum Campus and Northerly Island on a stretch that’s far less crowded than the portion near Navy Pier, where the wild, untamed waves of late autumn on Lake Michigan crash right up against the edge of the path, and the stiff, biting winds and fresh maritime air make me feel very alive and connected to the universe.
I wear my mask right up until the point that I start running (so that I don’t look like an asshole anti-masker to my fellow urban dwellers), and at the moment I take it off and fully breathe in the lake-scented air for the first time, it’s like a tonic for my brain.
Running is the opposite of booze in every way. The latter offers instant gratification at a substantial cost later on; the former demands initial exertion and sometimes exhaustion that feels great long after you’re done. It reminds me of an admonishment that a curmudgeonly dean would deliver to the partying, binge-drinking students at the university that is now my alma mater: “Pay now, play later; play now, pay later.”
In the case of running, it’s more like, “feel shitty now, feel amazing later.” Everything in life has a cost, and in the case of running, it’s worth every single day that I have to summon every vestige of willpower to drag myself out and do it.
Being outside
Last month I took a solitary drive up north to do some hiking and see some fall color in remote parts of northern Michigan and Wisconsin. It was lonely, as many situations are for me these days — but I’ve found that sometimes loneliness or solitude is a precursor to some of the most beautiful experiences. If nothing else, it’s an invitation to be fully present.
Being outside is a grounding experience. It’s an opportunity to reconnect with the universe whenever I feel a sense of existential alienation. As I’ve written several times before, connection among all things lies at the center of the intended design for all of creation, and the disruption of that pattern is at the core of so much suffering, discord, and devastation.
To be in nature is, for me, a reminder of my innate dependence on and relationship with the created order, which operates by a rhythm that transcends the worry or sadness of the day — and boasts an intelligent handiwork that radiates beauty, however fleeting it may be, no matter how deeply we may lose our way, or how powerless we may individually feel.
The other day, a homeless guy approached me and asked me for money for something to eat, and I said that I wasn’t carrying any (I wasn’t). I think he replied by saying that I was “privileged” — though I don’t know for sure.
If that is what he said, he’s absolutely right. I am, through no achievement of my own. And what do I have to show for it?
Am I doing enough to help solve society’s ills and injustices, or serve those who live under crushing poverty and need? Not at all. Not even close. Not by a long shot. If this is the true measure of one’s salvation, then I pray that grace is a real thing.
But again, life can’t always be about fixing. Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of being. Being fully present in the moment, and doing what we can.
Everyone has their own cross to bear. I would never, ever presume to equate my struggles with someone who might very well sleep under a bridge at night, or in a homeless shelter where the chances of contracting COVID-19 must be sky-high. But pain, grief, and unquenchable longing are all part and parcel of the human experience, even though those things may look very different to different people.
We’re all just trying to find our way home. Sometimes that’s the best we can do.
