Keyhole

 July 10th 2006


   In communion, to understand.  To find the right word, the one that opens the lock.  That is the work.   

    And sometimes this washes over into everyday life. If one’s inner life is typically spent trolling the deeps, or riding thermals high above the ground, the outer realities can seem so....dense.  I understand; realistically, it can be uncomfortable or too time consuming to wait while I struggle through the detritus of everyday conversation.  But occasionally, I find a keyhole.  But when I finally find a keyhole, if the other doesn't recognize it's a keyhole, it tends to get labeled. If the other is satisfied with the label, the wordless thing slips back into hiding, unrecognized, behind a locked door guarded by the label. So the effort is wasted.  Then I hesitate to verbalize.   I contemplate the likelihood that all conversational trivialities are relational hesitations.  Much of my life has been spent biting my tongue; or holding my peace.  But this needs an antithesis, some cathartic safety valve.

    So I speak in tongues while driving alone, and trust God to give me English later.  Relief!  I give tongue to things I can't say, and things I can't understand, things that remain unsaid and things that cannot be named, as well as the longing, and the mists of things that are forming in my soul. Not a single rant or irritation.  Just mystery.  After this I am content for a time, because God is giving me an ear, and very well understands.  

    (It seems to follow that not many people listen to God for very long for the same reasons: we all label the keyhole word in some fashion, and leave because time is up before the half is told.  But God continues to be available.  At least, God is always there when I come waltzing in looking for an audience.) 

     Aren’t we all bottom heavy with unspoken things?  They are the ballast that weights our ships and keeps us upright in the water.  They are the things that connect us to the mystery of life and the wonder.  They are why meditation and prayer and car rides with other people are filled with silence, and you sit, with a mind that has derailed itself trying to comprehend something beyond it’s scope, and you still sit, and God or Whatever you call that, sits, wordless, pregnant, all around. 

    We went to Port Townsend yesterday, and every pinhole of a possibility was quickly plugged with an answer,  a sarcasm, or an impatience; terse reminders and responses aimed at conclusion, and The Deep was detoured and rebooted to mere care-taking at the shallow end. It was like rote recitation of common prayer. Someone said once that God has subjected all to disappointment.  Well said, that.  God is looking for a witness. 


    “So, just imagine if I had been with someone else, would there have been a key instead of wax for that keyhole?” I asked, and the answer was, well, maybe.  Maybe not.  It could be too much to ask.  Maybe my struggling is a private matter, and I’ve no right to expect a connection apart from the mystery I am so aware of, swirling slowly within. 

     Then, wordlessness begets a virgin territory, and instead of looking at it as something to be dredged, look at it as something to cherish, something to wait for.  Something to live with.  Now, there is a kernel.  But that’s not a new thought.  It’s an unresolved issue.  Although I can look inside alone, I still can’t figure it out alone. 


                        ******



    I broke for a cup of tea and my critic challenged  “What have you been doing?”  And I answered, “I’m writing a response to a post about trying to say things you have a hard time putting into words.”
    “Those things are better left unsaid,” my companion promptly responded and then added crisply  “In my opinion,”  revealing a whole realm of suffering that resents revelation. 

I had no reply.

My companion went back to work, leaving me to wonder.