A Passion

"To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, to come closer together, to find each other, and to feel: That is the purpose of life" - The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

If there's one thing I would have to stick to my guns on, if all else was taken from me spiritually, would be that God is totally aware of me and cares deeply for me, and also this: 

Ask and ye shall receive, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?

For on this hangs the faith of all men. We must want. Not in the way an animal wants, wandering to and fro seeking the next source of sustenance, driven by the will to survive. No, we must desire with great intensity things that give life and light, uplifted by the will to live. Is it remarkable that the mere mental processes of desiring beauty, of visual grandeur and of calm simplicity, feeds us in and of itself? It is something that has haunted mankind as a whole since creation, a seed that we carry with us all, a constant companion. We call it passion! Once it begins to sprout, we must either grow with it, or it overtakes us, for its potential is that of a mighty tree. Some men have never been happy with merely dreaming. Some women have never been content with merely serving. I believe that the more we allow passion to take root in our spiritual soil, and bravely scale its mighty branches, the higher heights we can attain. Sometimes I feel it over-taking me. It makes madmen of all who embrace its awful design. You will forever be "unreasonable," "freaskish," "obsessed," and "a dreamer". It is never done with you, only you can be done with it. I am so grateful that as a  tender boy of eighteen years, I took to the road and wandered its strange path. Though it was a short three weeks, it in a way led to a renunciation of the world, such that I will never again take the easy way, the comfortable life. I have no choice now but to follow my passions. The seed of mad wonder has already taken root in me. I must either entwine my soul to it or be destroyed by it. No matter that others may not understand or see me as dangerous. We are all the captains of our own ship, possessed with our view of the sky, as only a natural result of where God has put us. Excepting the north star (for those of appropriate hemisphere), of course others shall insist on different passage, for the position of the stars in their sky differ from those of your own!! The sky read marvelous and terrible things for a man named Prince Siddhartha. A prophecy given of him, early in his childhood, declared that he would either become king, or would become a spiritual leader. He would witness 4 signs of suffering in this world: An old man, a sick man, a dead man, and an ascetic. For so much of his life, clouds were covered over his sterile and comfortable existence. His father-king had done everything he could to make his life excellent and free from suffering, even the witnessing of suffering, so much so that when Siddhartha, at the age of twenty-nine, saw an old man, decreped man, he was overcome with grief and shock. He had never seen genuine pain before. Once the glorious stars, Avalokitsevara's ten-wondered universe of dark and diamonds, came to his view through the clouds, burning in his eyes, a grand passion grabbed his bosom, and carried him far away, to a new life -- a condescension to the sufferings and pains of man. Through his new life as a self-deprived vagrant, he eventually became enlightened. He is now known as the Buddha (there were many before him, and many after him, but to his people, none were greater). His suffering during his spiritual journey brought him to a way to be freed from and rise above it. I will talk more on that later. But the following is a letter I sent a dear friend:

I've been doing a lot of thinking and reading today, and things have been so peaceful. I think of John Muir, Vincent Van Gogh, Neal Cassidy, or Everett Reuss, about how they had SO MUCH PASSION and many stories of how it consumed them. I feel a strong kinship with their madness. Everett Reuss gave 3 years of his life to the painted desert -- experiencing places such as Monument Valley, Shiprock, Zion National Park, and hole-in-the-rock, and associating with the Utes and Navajos -- and finally, the desert took him at the tender age of twenty. Reading his letters . . . about what he lived make my soul and body burn, like my passion for life is too big and I don't know what to do with all of it, and it hurts a little, like being love-sick. It's very hard to describe accurately.

I thought about that morning that was mine, passing swamps and fields in the early light. 'Twas a business trip. At one point, we crossed a vein of swamp water that fed the estuaries further inland, and trees marked where the river-bend and fields of wild growth, teeming in the fresh morning sun, merged together. It called to me, and there were times when we passed fields to the right, grasses exploding in light as if covered in a tender dusting of morning frost. What I felt as the light danced between trees that raced along my eyes led me to wonder, "do the other people in this car feel what I'm feeling?! Does it make them marvel, does it fill their body with vision, does it set a tingle to their spine and an ember to their hearts???"
The sun setting fields in white majesty, glorying God and singing purest hymns (for who can find a more complete song than grain heads caressing one another in the wind?), the swamp trees decked in moss so richly, wisely, twisting their way up to heaven, caught in yellow morning light. I see so much beauty and kindness and joy and sadness that at times it is too much to bear and I must temper my feelings as to not be overwhelmed or to not unsettle my fellows, unable to truly share with them how it affects me so (Everett Reuss said that, above all, this was his greatest torture. His isolation in his love-affair with this grand world was more acute than mine). . . And so, I want to shout, but must whisper most times, or keep quiet, it smoldering inside all the while.
I now turn to an experience I had during a trip to upstate SC. I caught a ride with a woman and her friend. Their lives bore no resemblance to the comfortable ones of their peers. The one I had originally contacted, Suzie, holds a Masters in Sustainable Communities, has traveled far over this small planet, and has compassion for all living things. Suzie is a self-titled misanthrope. She finds it hard to believe in humanity. For her too, life seems too much to take in at times. She bemoaned her HSP and how it makes it self-imposed isolation and acute suffering all-too-easy. I told her that she is able to experience life on a deeper level than most. That great suffering brings great love. It makes one more human, I said! "Think of the great people of history, who lived such lives of pain and sorrow. Look at how much love they had. Look how much they changed their world forever! Think even of Jesus Christ. It is said that he suffered the pains of all men and women. His ability to feel was so great. He was the most human human to ever walk this world"
Pleasure and pain, love and grief are so divinely designed, so intimately intertwined. Each are force-pairs. We must not be afraid to feel, lest we forfeit the purpose of life.