I sat in my kitchen, book placed on the marble table, a warm cup of tea squeezed gently between my palms as I looked into some unknown distance through my kitchen's East facing window. I noticed the yellow sunlight of this autumn Sunday shining on a nondescript fence recently raised by my neighbor. But I wasn't thinking about the fence.
I was thinking about a line I'd just read in the book that now sat quietly on the table, as if waiting for me with infinite patience to resume my reading, our conversation, between the book and me. The line I read was something of a quote from Saint Augustine, something like "Our purpose in life is to restore the sight with which we can see God." Not too often do we hear about people proclaiming our purpose in this life, or if we do, often we just roll our eyes. I don't even know who Saint Augustine is, not even sure if it's a write with a saintly name or a real Christian saint. But I wondered about what he said. I could see the nondescript, new fence outside my kitchen. I noticed the weakening sunlight. It was very still out there, in my backyard, and I noticed that my mind was still, just for a little bit, taking a respite from being constantly hammered by an indefatigable drummer or whipped by a tireless slave driver. My mind was taking a break so I could wonder in silence what that phrase meant.
A few chapters before this line in the book the main character wondered about her purpose. She always thought it was conforming to some expectation of women in society. She was struggling with the idea that if she weren't a housewife and putting her efforts and love into raising children, then what was her purpose in life?
My God is not some old looking white man with a long beard sitting somewhere watching over all of us. My God is within me. But I don't have the sight to see him. I don't even notice him very much. I probably never looked at him in the way I was looking at the neighbor's new fence outside. That is to say, I never started to look at myself. And rarely have I noticed myself. I believe we are all perfect; and perfection cannot be made imperfect. But I, at least, haven't been able to see that about myself. There is always a desire to correct something, and when that desire became too difficult to realize, I inevitably relied on someone else, especially in a romantic situation. Sounds familiar? Don't we hear about people needing to find someone to make them whole? Their other half? The all too clichéd "You complete me!"? We are already complete, but we can't see it.
Why? It doesn't matter. Not to the goal of finding that perfection, otherwise we would just sit forever blaming on something or other, someone or other. How do we restore our sight to see the true beauty, the true God, the true perfection within us?
Sitting there in the momentary stillness of life surrounded by inanimate and unencroaching objects, I felt good. Not long before I was feeling sad and angry over someone that I felt had been taking advantage of me, of my goodness, of my love. And I was still feeling a little sick and should have been in bed instead of sitting there in the perfect stillness. But in that perfect stillness, with this warm cup of tea between my palms, I felt happy. I felt for that moment everything was going to be all right.
I don't know how to restore the sight, but I know what it looks like each time I see myself better. I feel this fuzzy warmth about myself, this contentment with myself, this hope that being alone is a gift, not always a curse, especially in this era when everyone wants my attention and no one really knows how to give any back. I, too, of course, am always seeking attention. Except this moment, this moment when restore a little bit of that vision of my own perfection.
A friend told me a few weeks ago to look beyond myself, notice others, notice other things, not be so focused on myself. I see that what she said is not contradictory to what I believe. I turn everything into something about me, always wanting to change something about me as a response to what happens around me. In the end it was about me being too busy doing upgrades, fixing bugs, comparing to other programs, except that this program is my life. I haven't been able to relax about who I am, to just see that I am perfect, and that I can focus my love on others, pay attention to the details around my life.
I put my warm tea back down and picked up the book again, just to finish the few sentences left in the chapter. The silence continued for as long as I needed it. Maybe a bit of that silence comes from within, when the heavy drilling and sledgehammers ceased momentarily in their quest for a perfection that already existed.
