Where Can I Go
I wonder if there are things in me that are broken beyond repair.
That implies that people, I included, are problems to be fixed rather than vessels that can be redeemed, healed, resurrected.
I am not a machine. There is no assembly line churning out happy brains or compassionate hearts. I can’t take a blowtorch to the jagged cracks in my broken soul. I can’t flip a switch and suddenly become a nicer person. There is no can filled with oil of no rage that will help this groaning bitterness subside.
I despair of ever being present to who I am, let alone becoming better. I look within and see nothing but creasote poles with rusting staples and the tattered yellowing inspirational quotes I have collected over the years beside the well-worn ruts of habits that lead me in circles.
In Old French, habit often meant clothing, dress, or outward appearance, like a monk’s habit or nun’s habit: the clothing that marks a way of life.
If only I could see my habits as holy raiment.
Because a habit is not only what is worn outside. It is a repeated way of being that clothes the soul.
A habit begins as an inward repetition, but it rarely stays hidden. Over time, it can leak into the outer world.
A habit of resentment leaks out as envy.
A habit of gratitude leaks out as generosity.
A habit of fear leaks out as the need for control.
A habit of prayer leaks out as patience.
A habit of contempt leaks out as cruelty.
A habit of mercy leaks out as gentleness.
What I repeatedly “wear” inside can eventually becomes visible outside. The soul’s wardrobe becomes the body’s costume.
Or perhaps:
What the soul wears long enough, the world eventually sees.
But is this universally true?
Some habits leak outward. Some become visible in tone, posture, choices, reactions, tenderness, irritability, silence, generosity, avoidance.
But much of my inner world remains hidden, even from people who love me.
There are whole rooms inside me that never echo with speech. Longings. Griefs. Strange associations. Private shames. Holy hopes. Images. Old wounds. Dreams that would sound foolish if spoken out loud.
Even my kindness can be hidden. Even my faith can be hidden. Even my pain can be hidden.
So the truer version might be:
What is repeated inwardly often shapes the outer life, but it does not always reveal the entirety of the inner life.
The outer self is not a full confession. It is more like a weather report from a continent no one has completely mapped.
And sometimes what leaks out is not the deepest truth, but the most defended part. Anger may leak out while grief stays hidden. Sarcasm may leak out while longing stays hidden. Withdrawal may leak out while love stays hidden. Busyness may leak out while loneliness stays hidden.
So habits do indeed clothe the soul—but the clothing that is revealed is not the whole person.
There is still the hidden self. The unseen self. The self known by God more deeply than by others, or even by me.
To be unseen by the world is not to be unseen by God. To be unknown by the world is not to be unknown by God.
Where can I go from Your presence? the Psalmist asks.
My inner world may be hidden. That does not mean it is less real than the outer world. It may be unrevealed, unreceived, unspoken, or still becoming. But hidden is not the same as nonexistent. And unknown by others is not the same as unknowable.
In fact, sometimes it feels like what is within is more real than what is without. The challenge is the dichotomy of the two. I am a fragile glass automaton wandering in a blistering world of hard, sharp-edged creatures trying to trip me into a soul shattering fall. All that I have lived for gone in the blink of one mistep.
In the end, I must admit that I don’t really understand either world. My only hope is that what continues to thrive within will overcome the desert without and not the other way around.
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