I am sitting alone, in the morning with my Starbucks
instant coffee (Via) brewed and properly laced with skim milk, no sugar. I am
wearing a sweater and jeans, both from second hand shops (which is where most
all my clothing comes from nowadays). No radio is on, no stereo, and no
television. It’s quiet. The violent noise of the modern world is just not
there. I can hear myself sip my drink and I can hear the chair creak when I
shift to turn the page in my book.
I can’t decide if I want to read Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot or Henri Nouwen’s Can You Drink the Cup? Both books are on
my ‘to read’ list. Yet, I may finish an escape novel (lately it’s Bruce
DeSilva’s Rogue Island) and give my
brain a bit of a rest. But, the rest doesn’t come.
Instead, I feel a sense of loss that surprises me and
frankly it hurts a bit. The loss begins with the retiring of the band, REM.
They have been my favorite rock band for more than two decades. I have listened
to all sorts of music, but I have lived with REM. I don’t know exactly why, but
their retirement hurts a bit. It reveals not simply my love for certain music,
but also my own identification with what REM stands for and has artistically
produced. And I am driving quite a bit lately for work splitting my time
between two cities, so I decide to spend some time creating a post-REM playlist
that will both accompany me on the road, but will also describe where I am at
in life. An hour later, my playlist is done and ready to be unleashed on the
open road. For the record, here’s the playlist, in order:
-
- Lake
Michigan—Rogue Wave
- Losing You—Boxer
Rebellion
- Semi -Automatic—Boxer
Rebellion
- Cities of
Night—Blaqk Audio
- Blinding—Florence
and the Machine
- Hurricane
Drunk---Florence and the Machine
- Princess of
China--Coldplay
- Amor Fati—Washed
Out
- Where Once I
Feared to Walk—Jason Clark
- Run in the
Night—Jars of Clay
- If You Run—Boxer
Rebellion
- Broken Glass—Boxer Rebellion
- Open Your Arms—The Editors
I think to myself that thirteen is a good number and
strangely, I am now looking forward to sitting in the car alone. This is a bit
weird because I am already alone and suddenly my thoughts are back to feeling
loss. I decide to check email, partly out of habit, partly because I really
want connection. I like solitude, don’t get me wrong, but I also want to share
things and explore ideas, maybe pour someone else a coffee, and sit, listening
not to his or her voice, but heart. So, I open up my inbox and see several
updates from the Washington Post and New York Times. I sometimes forget what I
have subscribed to in my inbox, so I am surprised at the headlines about Iran
and the threat of nuclear war.
I also see a note about a kidnapping in Latin America, a
suicide blast in the Middle East, and borderline panic about the global
economy. When did the international landscape become part of my morning coffee?
Who dumped all of this news in to my inbox? Then, it hits me.
I am more connected than I often think and I don’t mean
the plugged in version. I am part of an international community, a global
economy, and a worldwide humanity. Not to mention the fact that this is just
the visible world. I am also part of an invisible, spiritual world, a
supernatural world, and an emotional world. The loss I feel turns in to all
sorts of things as I think about friends in Africa searching for food, friends
in Asia searching for dignity, and friends in Latin America searching for their
parents.
Forget email. So, I shut down and go back to my cup of
coffee and my books. I refill my mug, relocate my page, but I can’t recapture
solitude. A new day has already run me over and I didn’t see it coming.
Tonight, I’ll vow to be better prepared for tomorrow.
I’ll go to bed on time and fight the urge to watch any of the late night
monologues or news updates or that one last, quick, ‘it’ll only take a second,’
glance at email or goodreads or linked in or any of those sites. I will simply
try to rest, then get up, have my morning coffee and seek to make a difference
in the world, unless, of course, I get distracted.
Then, what happens? What if I do get distracted again?
What if I feel this aching loss about wanting to see her or talk to him? What
if I don’t sleep well and my pillow doesn’t hug me back? What if I wake up on
the wrong side of the bed and hurt the world before I even have my coffee?
“Relax,” I finally say to myself, “Quit over thinking
things.” I agree with my inner voice of reason, but want to qualify it. So, I
begin to argue with myself, finally ending it with these words: ‘we’ll deal
with this tomorrow.’ Finally, I am back to silence. I can hear the chair creak
again as I turn another page.
-bo
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