I spend a lot of time thinking about home.
Every restless night of sleep on my air mattress, every cold bucket-shower, every bad cup of coffee, every time I get sick — They all remind me of the ease and comfort that I’ve given up for this year. In addition, so many of the relationships that I’ve made on the race, and so many of the new faces that I meet every day, only bring to memory the relationships and faces that I've left behind at home. Man was not made to live on Skype alone, and I find myself longing for the simplicity and intimacy of spending time with those who I truly know and am truly known by.
As much allure as the Race’s promise of adventure once held for me, the truth is that I have grown tired of this adventure, and yearn instead for that profound sense of belonging and contentment which home alone now seems able to offer.
These feelings have prompted the following thoughts in my heart and mind:
1) Tolkien Was Right:
A recent rereading of the Lord of the Rings has brought these words of Gimli to mind, and given them a new depth that I had not at first percieved:
“Tell me, Legolas, why did I come on this quest? Little did I know where the chief peril lay! Truly Elrond spoke, saying that we could not foresee what we might meet upon our road. Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would not have come, had I known the danger of light and joy. Now I have taken my worst wound in this parting, even if I were to go this night straight to the Dark Lord. Alas for Gimli son of Gloin!"
“Alas, indeed!” is my heart’s response, for on the Race I too have come to know the “danger of light and joy,” the danger of loving something in a world where permanence is but a parable, where to love at all is to be vulnerable. Yet perhaps may we not steal from this some lasting encouragement — for if in beauty and light lie all this world's power to harm us, then have we anything to fear from the darkness all around? And indeed, are not the wounds which beauty inflicts upon us something beautiful and wondrous themselves, though sorrowful and sobering, the truth, perhaps, of which masochism is but a mockery?
2) Home As A Parable:
Like all our hearts’ deepest longings, the desire for home is a faithful messenger, and he is to be much heeded in this life — yet heed also this word of caution, for Home is both messenger and zealot, and it must be forgiven him, but never forgotten that in ardor he often turns from candor, and that in whimsy he forgets wisdom, promising the truth of that which he is merely a hint, the reality of that which he is but a fantasy, the fullness of that which he is simply a part.
Yes, our maxim must be: Love him much — Use him well — Trust him not.
But in what then shall we place our trust? In this alone: We are all far from home, and you no closer than I, as those who, newly awakened, are no more near to their dreams than he who has long been sleepless, save perhaps in the fleeting proximity of memory.
Indeed, home is a place to which you have never been, and all that you call home is but the riddled scrawl from a waking dream, written as though on ancient scroll, or carved, perhaps, out of some misshapen stone, candlelit and heartfelt, a whisper which swells and swells, and rolls and rolls, and crashes — not upon, but inside us — bending all its immense power and beauty and sorrow toward the simple promise that one day night shall come no longer, and we shall awake to dreams more fantastic and wonderful than any we have yet imagined, and we shall live in all the fullness and reality of which our present homes are but a shadow, a signpost, and a parable.
