Yesterday was a day of awkwardness.
On a normal day, I think the most awkward part of my day
would have been sitting at the movies with a group of friends in the middle of
the afternoon, crying and crying. The movie was “Life of Pi,” and I thought it
was very good – it matched, more or less, my (admittedly dim) memory of the
book (which I also liked). I was particularly struck with the relatively early scene
where the ocean turns to glass; that matched the book of my memory, and was
really powerful for me. I may have cried then. But I know I cried through the
violence, I cried through the panic. I cried whenever they showed the moon. Mostly
I cried at that sense of utter abandonment by God that is so central to the
movie.
So how was that not the most awkward part of my day? (Awkward,
by the way, is different from being bad; it’s part of being vulnerable,
allowing ourselves to be seen. We are all broken people, and we need each other
in our brokenness.)
Memory is a funny thing. My memory of reading Life of Pi puts me in Roanoke, Virginia,
up in the attic that I had completely remodeled by myself (complete with
built-in bookshelves and a nice little reading nook). I had made a place, put
down some roots, felt at home for the first time in a long time. That seems
like a lifetime ago.
Anyhow, “don’t let the sound of your own wheels make you
crazy” sounds like good advice right now.
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