Sitting with these three was surreal. As we talked, laughed and drank caffeine laced thoughts, I began to think of a different time in my life. I am not sure if it was because of Braff's revelatory speech about the Infinite Abyss, or if it was just the extreme happiness I was feeling in the company of these three human beings. Regardless, I reminisced about a dark time, a hard time in my life.
I am not sure how long ago it was, a few days, weeks or years. But, at some point, I grew fed up with the smoke, the text, the confusion, the heaviness of it all. I was confused by the two Old Men, one telling me about swallowing the ocean, the other about dancing on the surface. I was hurt. I was exhausted. This wasn't the nausea of breathing. No, this was the end. This was not only lack of clarity, lack of vision, no something worse--it was total lack of desire.
I tried to leave the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. I walked outside and headed "home". Once there, I retrieved an album of memories--pictures, words, etc. I made my way to a park where I had spent time as a child. I remembered the playground being much bigger, and of course much more important. In that album, I looked over people from my past--people I cared about, people that cared about me; people that had come and gone; people that tried, people that looked to me for answers. I saw faces that made me sad. Faces that I knew smiled for the second a picture was taken, faces that couldn't be satisfied. Behind those smiles, I saw hurt. I saw misery. I saw people I wanted to help, to make feel whole, and human, and unembarrassed, and dignified, and proud, and happy. People I wished could laugh alot and hurt very little. As a result, I saw people I disappointed and people I couldn't give all that to. On top of it all, I looked around and saw no progress--I was stuck in the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop and was at least wise enough to know there was no leaving--no going outside of it--once you entered.
I began to weep. First tears trickled down my cheek, then they flowed constantly. Before I knew it I was bent over, my face in my hands, shaking and weeping. With every tear--every convulsion--I felt the powerlessness of the situation rattle through me. I felt like I would choke at every moment from trying to cry--to express--to vomit--to omit--something from, yes, now I realized, an abyss.
In the lowest, the darkest-when the night had gone from the end of day to complete dark--a hand touched me on the shoulder gently. Not frightened, no, no even startled. I kept on. I didn't care who it was and didn't care what was going to happen next. The shaking, the convulsing, the weeping--it all continued. I don't know how long we sat there like that, their hand on my shoulder as I wept uncontrollably, it could have been hours for all I know.
Then my friend spoke, and as soon as she did, I realized it was an old, familiar and wise voice. It was a friend--one I had met in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. This was a Wise-Soul--a conversation with her meant one espresso would last three hours. She was soft spoken, but loud. She was younger than most, but born older than most too. She said, "I saw you. I saw you leave and I saw the look on your face." She took the album and looked through it.
After another long silence she said something I will never forget:
"You know, friend, it seemed to me then, as it does now, that neither brother was entirely right. It is presumptuous, arrogant, perhaps, to think one can swallow the entire ocean. To take it all in without drowning. It is an obsession that takes oneself too seriously. There is something to be said for playing on the surface. But is the surface all there is? I don't think either of us could ever believe that. Certainly I could never believe it of you, my dear, old friend, that you can resist for long the desire to submerge yourself in all that deep blue, all that impossible-possible depth. Swallow it whole? No, none of us can do that. We are lying to ourselves, entertaining those dangerous delusions of grandeur, if we think we can do that. But swim in it. Let it wash over you. Don't be afraid to get your feet wet--hell, to get everything wet. Admit that it is bigger than you are--if there is any swallowing, it will swallow you and not the other way around. But it won't. You can always go back to the surface, the sunlight, the salty breeze, if it gets to be too much. Let yourself be human. But don't give up on the very human seriousness of all this, either. Let the waves crash over you. Come up for air, then plunge yourself back in. That is the secret."
I looked at her, and said all I could at the time, "Thank you." With that we shared a hug and said goodbye. At that moment, I was thankful to be human. I was thankful to have the grace of another--their hands, their embrace, their embodied friendship--with me. I was thankful for her words and her wisdom. I was thankful to be human--to be embarrassed, humiliated, hurt, embodied, thrown and stuck in the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop. She walked away. I wiped my tears, put the album back under my bed at "home" and went back to the sea of text, smoke and yes, tears, within the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop.
Nothing was clarified. Nothing was clear. But, my desire to be human was restored. As I walked, I whispered "Thank you" one more time.
I am not sure how long ago it was, a few days, weeks or years. But, at some point, I grew fed up with the smoke, the text, the confusion, the heaviness of it all. I was confused by the two Old Men, one telling me about swallowing the ocean, the other about dancing on the surface. I was hurt. I was exhausted. This wasn't the nausea of breathing. No, this was the end. This was not only lack of clarity, lack of vision, no something worse--it was total lack of desire.
I tried to leave the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. I walked outside and headed "home". Once there, I retrieved an album of memories--pictures, words, etc. I made my way to a park where I had spent time as a child. I remembered the playground being much bigger, and of course much more important. In that album, I looked over people from my past--people I cared about, people that cared about me; people that had come and gone; people that tried, people that looked to me for answers. I saw faces that made me sad. Faces that I knew smiled for the second a picture was taken, faces that couldn't be satisfied. Behind those smiles, I saw hurt. I saw misery. I saw people I wanted to help, to make feel whole, and human, and unembarrassed, and dignified, and proud, and happy. People I wished could laugh alot and hurt very little. As a result, I saw people I disappointed and people I couldn't give all that to. On top of it all, I looked around and saw no progress--I was stuck in the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop and was at least wise enough to know there was no leaving--no going outside of it--once you entered.
I began to weep. First tears trickled down my cheek, then they flowed constantly. Before I knew it I was bent over, my face in my hands, shaking and weeping. With every tear--every convulsion--I felt the powerlessness of the situation rattle through me. I felt like I would choke at every moment from trying to cry--to express--to vomit--to omit--something from, yes, now I realized, an abyss.
In the lowest, the darkest-when the night had gone from the end of day to complete dark--a hand touched me on the shoulder gently. Not frightened, no, no even startled. I kept on. I didn't care who it was and didn't care what was going to happen next. The shaking, the convulsing, the weeping--it all continued. I don't know how long we sat there like that, their hand on my shoulder as I wept uncontrollably, it could have been hours for all I know.
Then my friend spoke, and as soon as she did, I realized it was an old, familiar and wise voice. It was a friend--one I had met in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. This was a Wise-Soul--a conversation with her meant one espresso would last three hours. She was soft spoken, but loud. She was younger than most, but born older than most too. She said, "I saw you. I saw you leave and I saw the look on your face." She took the album and looked through it.
After another long silence she said something I will never forget:
"You know, friend, it seemed to me then, as it does now, that neither brother was entirely right. It is presumptuous, arrogant, perhaps, to think one can swallow the entire ocean. To take it all in without drowning. It is an obsession that takes oneself too seriously. There is something to be said for playing on the surface. But is the surface all there is? I don't think either of us could ever believe that. Certainly I could never believe it of you, my dear, old friend, that you can resist for long the desire to submerge yourself in all that deep blue, all that impossible-possible depth. Swallow it whole? No, none of us can do that. We are lying to ourselves, entertaining those dangerous delusions of grandeur, if we think we can do that. But swim in it. Let it wash over you. Don't be afraid to get your feet wet--hell, to get everything wet. Admit that it is bigger than you are--if there is any swallowing, it will swallow you and not the other way around. But it won't. You can always go back to the surface, the sunlight, the salty breeze, if it gets to be too much. Let yourself be human. But don't give up on the very human seriousness of all this, either. Let the waves crash over you. Come up for air, then plunge yourself back in. That is the secret."
I looked at her, and said all I could at the time, "Thank you." With that we shared a hug and said goodbye. At that moment, I was thankful to be human. I was thankful to have the grace of another--their hands, their embrace, their embodied friendship--with me. I was thankful for her words and her wisdom. I was thankful to be human--to be embarrassed, humiliated, hurt, embodied, thrown and stuck in the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop. She walked away. I wiped my tears, put the album back under my bed at "home" and went back to the sea of text, smoke and yes, tears, within the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop.
Nothing was clarified. Nothing was clear. But, my desire to be human was restored. As I walked, I whispered "Thank you" one more time.
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