Ah-ha

"It's a sober sight
Your knuckles bared and white
It's the flicker on the front line from the candle bright
It's the appetite
You gotta suck on light
Stand your ground
So sue me I had a change of heart
I used to think that I could justify the waste of time it's only mine
But I'm yet to find a vivid life without it"
 - Suck On Light, by Boy & Bear


Do you ever feel like a detective in your own life? Slowly piecing together clues of who you are, why you're here, and what you're meant to do. Every now and then you get a great "Ah-ha!" moment, the kind loud and exuberant enough which, were you in a scene in a movie set outdoors, it would cause a flock of pigeons to dramatically take flight. Most of the time, though, it's more tedious: a compulsory glance through the magnifying glass as we go about our everyday lives before taking it up the search again in earnest. Listening for information through the backdoor of our minds. Sometimes the ah-ha moments are hard-earned, and sometimes they are seemingly stumbled upon, a boon set before us on the path. I say seemingly, for in my years of self-examination - both lackadaisical and well-intentioned - I find less and less reason to believe in actual coincidence.


When I was a child, I dreamed - as many have - of joining the circus, but really only the tight-rope walkers. It seemed so incredibly brave and daring, to walk across such great heights. Yet also within the realm of possibility: if I could learn controlled balance, and a level of ease and grace amid the tension, then it was just walking. Just one foot in front of the other, from one end of the rope to the other side. No second guessing or going back, just step by step, moving forward until the end. I imagined the thrill, the silent hush of the audience, and the vast expanse of air all around me. My sister and I loved to read the book "Mirette On The High Wire", a tale of a young French girl who learns the skill from a tight-rope walker who has lost his nerve. She is captivated with the high wire, pushing herself to conquer it. My sister and I would gaze at the beautiful illustrations and use them as inspiration for crossing balance beams which we pretended were of a gasp-worthy height. No clowns or acrobats or lion tamers called to me the way the tight-rope did. Partly for the thrill, but partly because I was sure that if I just learned it step by step, I could make it all the way. A clear path, slender as a wire, yet always leading to a set destination, and always only one way to go.


I know, now, that it's not so simple. I pray for direction and guidance and answers and clarity, and I look for them fervently as well. I take up the magnifying glass, and though it's always one step in front of the other, it's not so clear. There's uncertainly, which feels flimsy. Yet always, there is a path. There's a way forward, step by step, with occasional ah-ha moments, and getting turned around, and not being able to see your feet but moving them along anyway, and it's tedious and mesmerizing and terrifying and inspiring. No coincidences. Just life, lived and examined and purposeful. Vivid.