An Inarticulate Desire
"Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it, or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?" So muses Clarissa in the opening of Virginia Woolf's 1925 novel Mrs. Dalloway. Does it matter then, I ask myself, walking towards Rua dos Arcos, does it matter that I must inevitably cease to exist, and all this must go on—will go on—without me? All of the buildings in this street are centuries older than I. The castle at the top of the hill was founded in the twelfth century, many centuries before my mother gave birth to me on an autumn morning wept bare by the winds of the Great Plains. And how many inhabitants of the castle—of this town, this very plaza—have ceased, and the buildings and the streets—the Rio Nabão and the oak trees—have gone without them? And how many more in the city where I was born—where the river regularly floods and the heavy winter snows and early summer tornados bring down maple trees? Do I resent it, the inevitable finale to life, or am I consoled by the knowledge that one day my lights will go out and I will be ended, absolutely?
I think I cannot resent what is unavoidable. Like growing older, like mosquitoes in the humid summer or the necessary chores of living. I cannot resent the mosquitoes, so how could I resent mortality or those who will go on without me, those who shall forget me—those who will live their lives after mine has ended, never having known me? Death is the price we pay for the experience of life, and all that we love about it must be left behind. To resent mortality, it would seem, would be to resent life. One cannot be without the other. To live knowing time runs out does offer the chance to make that time something priceless—something that will make the end of it—the acceptance of the end—our last beautiful gesture. The pinnacle of an unfathomable journey. The fear of death keeps so many—too many—held in check, unable to take a risk or to chase a dream. What does one gain by fearing and resenting death when they are also too afraid to live?
I have met and known many people who could not or did not dream—did not live beyond the obligation of punching a clock five days a week, mowing the lawn on Saturday and having family dinners on Sunday. While many seem all too happy to live such ordered, unimaginative existences, it seems to me a sad way to go about life—curious about little more than the disingenuous dramas of a preferred reality TV program. What could be further from reality than such shallow exhibitionism? I have known and met many people who dreamed but were afraid to do anything about their dreams. Afraid to fail. Afraid to make a mistake—hindering their dreams with endless what ifs. What if I get robbed? What if the plane crashes? What if no one likes my book, my painting, my music? What if I am living out my dream traveling in Kenya or Argentina and my grandmother gets sick or my father dies? No one is obliged to like you or your work. You may fail and be robbed far from home. You will, absolutely, make mistakes and some day Grandma will fall ill and your father is going to die. Why should these be shackles on life when life is so unpredictable—so fleeting—and so very precious?
I have long wanted to be content with an ordinary life; have spent countless days over the years trying to be fully present and rewarded by having a job and rent to pay and laundry to fold; have tried to dream that vision of enlightened existence, to no avail. "I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life," is a quote of Virginia Woolf's that has, over the last decade, become something of a personal mantra. Why settle for ordinary when there is so much extraordinary, so much magic in the world? So many wonderful mistakes to be made—to learn from. I quest for life and living my short time in this world where the birds are singing and the flies won't leave my ankles alone—in this world where the Rio Nabão flows in its course, my limbs stretched in its icy waters in the middle of a day too hot to think. Life is uncertain—all lives are uncertain—but there is no peace in avoiding life.
Two nights ago I found out there have been two deaths in the family. The presence of death is always a reminder that the clock is ticking, and what is it I am doing with the minutes—the hours and the days? What is it I am doing with my time and does it matter that one day this all must go on without me? I do not know if I am comforted by the idea that death ends absolutely but I do not live in fear that I too must one day dislimn, leaving behind all that I have loved, all that I have dreamed and all that I have built. For now, I go on as others pass beyond; I learn and teach and dive into my depths, hoping to one day understand myself before there is no longer time for such introspection. I go on as others pass beyond, trying to make of the hours something worthy of this experience—life.