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When I returned inside, the apartment was dark. It had only been a few minutes, and so I stood there, wondering. I trudged up the stairs, wary of another confrontation and pressed open the door to our room and stood staring at shadows.
So there she lay, crying, and there I stood. It was time to make it up, but I still didn’t understand quite how it had gotten this far.
“Baby . . . ” I said in a half-whisper.
“What?” the reply was pouty but prepared for an attack should it be necessary.
“What’s the deal? Why are you upset?” Probably not the best choice of words, but words all the same.
“Because you attacked me! Then you just walked out of the door . . .”
“What?! You’re the one who attacked me!” I had raised my voice.
“All I did was ask you questions,” she replied. Now there were two raised voices.
Okay, I thought. Calm down. This will only return us to point ‘A’ again. I spoke more calmly, “It wasn’t what you said; it was the manner in which you said it.”
“What manner! All I did was ask you ‘Why?’”
Okay, let me back up. The argument had been concerning religion, or not so much religion, but with my newfound obsession with studying it. It was petty. I had been trying to explain it, and she’d pointed out that I was centering upon Christianity, which was true, and she asked "Why?" Probably a sensible question, and she was right. If one wishes to study religion in general, shouldn’t one focus upon all major religions? But the question had a tone, and I was offended by it. The reasons I would have to come to terms with later. Anyway, the conversation turned to argument, and I walked out of the front door.
I think that brings us up to speed. I believe the last line was, “What 'manner'? All I did was ask you, ‘Why?’”
“They just felt more like rebuttals than questions… It felt like an attack.”
“Well, I didn’t mean for it to feel that way. I just don’t understand this obsession of yours . . .”
“Neither do I . . . . I just have questions, questions which I feel need answers. I don’t understand it, either . . . . I just need to search, and I felt like you were accusing me of becoming a born-again Bible banger.” And with that, I began to understand. The accusation hadn’t been hers, but was inside myself. The fact is, I’m often repelled by Christians. I feel that many of them use their religion as a crutch, a sort of back door to thinking, a short-cut around difficult questions. She hadn’t accused me of anything, but had threatened to uncover a shocking possibility within me. Was it possible that I was becoming one of . . . Them? The argument was indeed my fault, and as she stared at me, I think she saw this realization. It was difficult to speak.
“Look,” I said, slowly, “I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t even know why I have to look, but I have to. Maybe it’s for confirmation in myself . . . . Maybe it’s for something external . . . . Maybe it is for a higher power . . . . I don’t know, but I have to search. Do you understand that?”
“I guess so . . .” She looked back at me, curiously. She didn’t understand.
“Don’t you ever question those things?” I asked. Please say, ‘Yes.’ Please say, ‘Yes . . . .’
“No. Not really . . . .” Perhaps she was the lucky one, not having to worry about potentially useless questions.
“You don’t? Not ever?” I was amazed.
“No.”
“Then you don’t understand it, and maybe you shouldn’t have to, but I have to, and I can’t stop . . . .”
“That’s fine,” she said, “That’s terrific. I was just wondering why.” Her tone was neither mocking nor scornful, but matter-of-fact.
“I can’t answer that. Maybe . . . someday . . . . Look, I’m sorry for upsetting you. It was my fault…”
“It’s okay. I just didn’t understand. It’s okay. You search.”
“I just—I don’t know. . . . . Orwell said, ‘On the balance, life is suffering, and only the very young and the very foolish imagine otherwise . . . .”
“That’s depressing.”
“Yes, but he also said, ‘Life, although full of sorrow, is worth living.'”
“Yeah . . . ”
“I don’t know. He was right, I think . . . on both counts.”
Her eyes wet a little. “That’s a terrible way to look at life.”
“No. Can’t you see? It’s true. There are twenty four hours in a day, and if you’re lucky, you spend four of those hours or less doing those things that make you happy.”
“That’s awful. . . . ” Tears were forming.
“No . . . No, not at all. You spend so much time suffering and so little time being truly happy…”
“Yeah,” she whimpered, “So . . . ?”
“. . . that there must be something truly wonderful and magical about those happy times to make it worth it all. And those things are what you live for: people you love, things you enjoy, whatever they may be. You make those for yourself, and for me, a part of that is mystery—the search for understanding. ‘Life, although full of sorrow, is worth living.’ Don’t you see? It’s the most beautiful way to look at it. Those terrific, wonderful things that somehow out-weigh the suffering. Don’t you see?”
“I think so . . .” she was crying, but she did understand.
I kissed her and held her tightly against me, and felt the shiver in her tiny frame, and I began to think of my search and all of the things I didn’t and may never understand. But I did know this: I loved her, and life was worth living, and that was enough for tonight.
A Search
So there she lay, crying. There she lay with the blanket covering her face. She looked pitiful. I had made her cry, and I felt rotten for it. Funny, during the argument, I’d felt I was the one being attacked. So, I walked outside and closed the door and sat, brooding. And she ran upstairs and flopped onto the bed and hid herself in the blankets.
When I returned inside, the apartment was dark. It had only been a few minutes, and so I stood there, wondering. I trudged up the stairs, wary of another confrontation and pressed open the door to our room and stood staring at shadows.
So there she lay, crying, and there I stood. It was time to make it up, but I still didn’t understand quite how it had gotten this far.
“Baby . . . ” I said in a half-whisper.
“What?” the reply was pouty but prepared for an attack should it be necessary.
“What’s the deal? Why are you upset?” Probably not the best choice of words, but words all the same.
“Because you attacked me! Then you just walked out of the door . . .”
“What?! You’re the one who attacked me!” I had raised my voice.
“All I did was ask you questions,” she replied. Now there were two raised voices.
Okay, I thought. Calm down. This will only return us to point ‘A’ again. I spoke more calmly, “It wasn’t what you said; it was the manner in which you said it.”
“What manner! All I did was ask you ‘Why?’”
Okay, let me back up. The argument had been concerning religion, or not so much religion, but with my newfound obsession with studying it. It was petty. I had been trying to explain it, and she’d pointed out that I was centering upon Christianity, which was true, and she asked "Why?" Probably a sensible question, and she was right. If one wishes to study religion in general, shouldn’t one focus upon all major religions? But the question had a tone, and I was offended by it. The reasons I would have to come to terms with later. Anyway, the conversation turned to argument, and I walked out of the front door.
I think that brings us up to speed. I believe the last line was, “What 'manner'? All I did was ask you, ‘Why?’”
“They just felt more like rebuttals than questions… It felt like an attack.”
“Well, I didn’t mean for it to feel that way. I just don’t understand this obsession of yours . . .”
“Neither do I . . . . I just have questions, questions which I feel need answers. I don’t understand it, either . . . . I just need to search, and I felt like you were accusing me of becoming a born-again Bible banger.” And with that, I began to understand. The accusation hadn’t been hers, but was inside myself. The fact is, I’m often repelled by Christians. I feel that many of them use their religion as a crutch, a sort of back door to thinking, a short-cut around difficult questions. She hadn’t accused me of anything, but had threatened to uncover a shocking possibility within me. Was it possible that I was becoming one of . . . Them? The argument was indeed my fault, and as she stared at me, I think she saw this realization. It was difficult to speak.
“Look,” I said, slowly, “I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t even know why I have to look, but I have to. Maybe it’s for confirmation in myself . . . . Maybe it’s for something external . . . . Maybe it is for a higher power . . . . I don’t know, but I have to search. Do you understand that?”
“I guess so . . .” She looked back at me, curiously. She didn’t understand.
“Don’t you ever question those things?” I asked. Please say, ‘Yes.’ Please say, ‘Yes . . . .’
“No. Not really . . . .” Perhaps she was the lucky one, not having to worry about potentially useless questions.
“You don’t? Not ever?” I was amazed.
“No.”
“Then you don’t understand it, and maybe you shouldn’t have to, but I have to, and I can’t stop . . . .”
“That’s fine,” she said, “That’s terrific. I was just wondering why.” Her tone was neither mocking nor scornful, but matter-of-fact.
“I can’t answer that. Maybe . . . someday . . . . Look, I’m sorry for upsetting you. It was my fault…”
“It’s okay. I just didn’t understand. It’s okay. You search.”
“I just—I don’t know. . . . . Orwell said, ‘On the balance, life is suffering, and only the very young and the very foolish imagine otherwise . . . .”
“That’s depressing.”
“Yes, but he also said, ‘Life, although full of sorrow, is worth living.'”
“Yeah . . . ”
“I don’t know. He was right, I think . . . on both counts.”
Her eyes wet a little. “That’s a terrible way to look at life.”
“No. Can’t you see? It’s true. There are twenty four hours in a day, and if you’re lucky, you spend four of those hours or less doing those things that make you happy.”
“That’s awful. . . . ” Tears were forming.
“No . . . No, not at all. You spend so much time suffering and so little time being truly happy…”
“Yeah,” she whimpered, “So . . . ?”
“. . . that there must be something truly wonderful and magical about those happy times to make it worth it all. And those things are what you live for: people you love, things you enjoy, whatever they may be. You make those for yourself, and for me, a part of that is mystery—the search for understanding. ‘Life, although full of sorrow, is worth living.’ Don’t you see? It’s the most beautiful way to look at it. Those terrific, wonderful things that somehow out-weigh the suffering. Don’t you see?”
“I think so . . .” she was crying, but she did understand.
I kissed her and held her tightly against me, and felt the shiver in her tiny frame, and I began to think of my search and all of the things I didn’t and may never understand. But I did know this: I loved her, and life was worth living, and that was enough for tonight.