On Rain, Shop-Vacs and the Mystery of Life

I have come to despise rain, temporarily, at least. After spending 24 hours in my basement, watching the slow evolution of a river where my dryer normally stands, it has become a nemesis. Likewise, the mere mention of the Shop-Vac now sends me into convulsions. Kneeling in the water, trying desperately to plug leaks with some miracle dry lock material that, thus far, has proven anything but miraculous, I think to myself, "What the hell am I doing here?"

Which leads me, somewhat unceremoniously, to the mystery of life.

Ten years ago, had you told me that I would one day be a homeowner, kneeling in the basement, cursing the ever-pouring rain; a professional, with a career, an office and colleagues who respect me; a runner, registered for her very first half marathon, I would have laughed, shook my head, and continued dreaming of the day I would be sitting on the beach, living a simple, care-free existence. That vision was so firmly implanted in my mind that any other outcome, any twist or change in direction seemed laughable, not just unimaginable but ridiculous.

So how, then, did I end up here?

Stepping back, I examine my life and understand it is a good one: solid, loving, comfortable. But also, somehow, wrong. I feel ashamed by this admission.

I wonder: is there any benefit in such a realization? Or is a numbed existence, or, perhaps I should say, a forced contentment, the wiser choice? In the realization there is pain, but beyond the pain, liberation. In the latter, there is a nothingness. This can be of a certain comfort and protection, too.

I have ended up in someone else's life. A good one, to be sure, but not mine. Do I make it mine? Or do I retrace my steps, seek my original path? This second choice would seem the more honest one: living a life true to one's self is the foundation of integrity, no? Yet when I look that direction, why the cold wind against my face? Why the sense of foreboding? Perhaps I am being childish, immature, selfish. Perhaps the sacrifice of past dreams is some sign of moral strength, some kind of indicator of one's progression towards...what? Towards a happy future? Towards fulfillment? I cannot believe that. Self-sacrifice, on one level, is truly a step towards personal fulfillment; but the abandonment of the self? No. A fulfilled, complete life cannot follow that.

And therein lies the mystery of life. My mystery, at least. Everything I have ever learned tells me to embrace the life I have, to welcome it, be thankful for it, and relish it: don't look back at what could have been. Don't look too closely at the discrepancy between here and there. Just...exist.

But everything in my soul tells me I am dying inside, begs me "Find some piece of yourself, grab it, cherish it, depend upon it. Exist in this life you now have, but float on this piece of yourself, be anchored to it."

I am being dramatic; I realize that. It is hard to ignore, though, how far removed I have become from my own self. It is terrifying to consider that the journey back to that familiar and welcome ground may exceed what strength I have.

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