To long for something – and to temper the spirit into a posture of discipline and waiting – is a difficult thing. Have you ever felt the welling-up of desire (for something good, something embedded in the deepest part of your heart), only to be asked to contain it so perfectly that no one would ever suspect that you were harboring such a powerful explosive in your chest?
This is the art of being balanced – of being a person of deep feeling and intense inclinations who is also tasked with functioning in the world. Perhaps you are such a person yourself – containing storms but struggling constantly with yourself to keep them in check and to present an equanimous face to the world.
This contest – between your deep-feeling nature and your longing for peace – presents a number of challenges. Most obvious among them is the sense of not knowing exactly who you are, since you’re often divided between these apparently contradictory modes of passion and poise. But another challenge that erupts, and frequently asks to be contended with, is the quandary of wanting to be a calm and stable person without sacrificing your capacity for profound feeling. How can you live peacefully and committedly in the world without numbing yourself to it? Is it possible to continue experiencing the high highs and the low lows of everyday existence – testing the limits of heartbreak and love and longing and faith and doubt and everything in between – while still being what you could consider a healthy and balanced person?
How does the artist tame his moods? How does the poet translate her depths of sorrow and anguish – preserving their beauty and fullness, understanding their nuances and the truths they impart – without losing the ability to show up for work, pay bills, raise a child, and take part in ordinary conversations about the weather, or taxes, or the price of eggs?
There must be some reconciling that happens – some agreement with God, or with the soul, that allows this double life to unfold. Do you agree to let the more romantic and turbulent parts of yourself escape only in appointed situations – for example, when you’re praying, or writing, or talking with a trusted friend, or sitting in your room alone? This arrangement seems practicable, if a little too segmented for my taste. Perhaps there is simply a time and a place for everything. The rules of etiquette, and of common sense, would suggest as much.
(Unfinished – to be continued.)