peace and the unknown

I have spent a lot of time in the past year telling myself that I would feel better if my future life were more certain.  If I knew where we'd be in a year or two.  If I knew what city we'd be in, what house we'd live in, what jobs we'd have, what school Katie would attend.  If I knew that we were going to emerge on the other side of this un-insured time healthy (and not bankrupted by some emergency or illness that had taken place in the meantime).  If there wasn't so much that was unknown.  If there wasn't so much that was up in the air.  That was what was bothering me, I told myself (and Geoff) - that I didn't have any real idea what our lives would be like in the future. 

My photography business could succeed, but will that happen before my unemployment benefits run out?  Will I have to take a part-time job working retail?  Will I end up accepting a temp job, legal or non-legal?  Will I end up back in an office, working as a lawyer?  If I do, will I have time for photography work?  I've applied for some jobs out of the area - if I get one of those, will we leave Chicago?  And for where?  Somewhere closer to my family?  Somewhere else that's not close to anyone we know, but that's exciting to us for other reasons?  Should we try to stay in this condo until we can make some money from selling it, or should we just cut our losses and try to get out now?  Should we stay in it as long as we're going to be in Chicago anyway?  Or should we sell it either way?  What's going to happen to us when my unemployment benefits run out later on this year? 

I'm sure that this kind of uncertainty is hard for most people.  I know that it's been hard for me.  I have thought often about what I read in Stumbling on Happiness a few years ago, that possibly the biggest single factor in determining a person's level of happiness or contentment is the amount of control that she (or he) feels she has over her life (ironically, the author points out that depressed people are likely to have a more accurate view of the amount of control they are truly able to exercise over their lives).  In so many ways, for several years now, I have struggled to feel in control of my life. I have been waiting to get back to a place where I can look forward to next year, or even next month, and know what will be happening in my life.

Last Saturday night, a friend of ours from church treated us to a concert downtown performed by the St. Olaf choir.  It was a wonderful performance full of beautiful, moving music.  (Go see them if you get a chance.)  There was one piece, though, that stood out for me not because of the performance, or even because of the music itself, but because of the lyrics of the composition.  The piece - "This House of Peace," by Ralph M. Johnson - had been commissioned for the opening of a medical center in Oregon, and the lyrics included both a Gaelic blessing (as the chorus) and real words taken from letters written by loved ones of people who had been treated at the healing center (as the verses).  The last verse includes: "We live moment to moment now,/ not knowing what next will be./And in this unknown, I live in peace./She is sleeping well."  

At the very end of the piece, the lyrics repeat: "And in this unknown, I live in peace."

And in that moment, as the soloist's voice rang out through the sanctuary, I had my own epiphany.  I realized, suddenly, that the future is always unknown.  Here I have been thinking that once I had a job, or once we had a home we never planned to leave, or once we had financial security, or once we had health insurance, that I would know what my future held, and that the future would no longer be a vast unknown.  But in that moment, in a flash of intuition, I realized although we may sometimes have the illusion of knowledge and stability, that in a very real way, we never actually know. 

I never knew that I would be involved in a car accident in the summer of 2006 that would total our car and leave the other driver dead.  Katie and I could have easily been killed, too.  I didn't know, when we bought our condo, that it was not the sound financial investment that we thought it was; we were sure at the time that we would not live here for more than a year or two.  I never knew that out of all of our family members who attended mine and Geoff's wedding, including grandfathers in their 80's (and one of mine who is now 90), that the only person who would not live long enough to see our fifth wedding anniversary would be Geoff's sister Stephanie.  I never, ever even thought that the way I would leave my former place of employment (where a claims department had been in operation for at least forty years) would be because my employer would shut down the entire department and lay all of us off at once.  

There are good unknowns, too: I never knew I would marry my best friend after meeting him on the internet, or what amazing personalities my children would have (and when I would have them), or the fact that losing my job would turn me into an aspiring professional photographer within the year.  

I have been waiting, you see, for the knowing.  I have been waiting for more certainty in my life, assuming that once I had that, I could be less anxious, less fearful.  I have been waiting for stability to bring me peace.  And while it is true that my life has certainly had more dramatic upheaval and change in the past few years than most people's probably have (and certainly more than my life had in the few years before that), there will always be changes that can not be anticipated.  There will always be frightening unexpected occurrences that pop out of nowhere, and stressful events that I don't handle the way I thought that I would, and (thankfully) wonderful surprises that spring out of the mist to greet me.  And if I wait until my life is constant and stable before I allow myself to feel at peace, then I may never feel at peace. 

I want to feel some peace. 

At dinner after the concert, I told Geoff and the two women that we'd gone with (both of whom are friends of ours from the church) about the epiphany I'd had during the concert, about how we are always living in the unknown, and about how I wanted to find peace, regardless.  At home that night, half joking, I told Geoff that I wanted to give up when it came to trying to figure out what to do with my life (with our lives), and that maybe it was time to do what the church's interim pastor had suggested in a sermon awhile back - that when we no longer knew what to do, we should "give it to God," admit that we were not in control, and ask for help.  "I am ready to give up," I told Geoff.  "I do not know what are the best choices for us to make right now.  I want help."  I decided that maybe I needed to believe the idea we had explored in my Mondo Beyondo course - that "something greater is holding me," and that the universe has a way of working things out.  Just the idea that this was a possibility - that I could stop worrying about it - that God or the universe would deal with all of the agonizing implications arising from every tiny decision - made me feel a little bit better.  I don't know if it's true, but I don't need to.  Just the idea that it might be - that it's ok for me to stop trying to line up and piece together the 582 different future scenarios my life could include - gives me some peace. (And there is that other truth I've realized over the past few years: no matter how much I expect and prepare for the worst, it does not seem to make the worst any less painful, when and if it does happen - all it does do is make the previous days more painful.)

Anything can happen at any time, I told myself.  But for now, we are all right.  We are healthy, and we have clothes and a home.  We have friends, and family, and computers, and televisions, and cell phones.  We will strive for peace in the now, without knowing what will happen tomorrow. 

The very next night, our church - where Geoff has been the director of music, and which we as a family have attended and participated in for the last five years - was set on fire by a member of the congregation. The sanctuary and offices are mostly destroyed.  The outer walls are mostly intact.  Geoff's piano is ruined, and his personal music collection (thousands of dollars worth of music collected over decades) is largely destroyed.  

You may expect some pithy ending to all of this.  I don't have one.  Except that Geoff could have been at the church that night, working on some things, and he wasn't.  The fire could have been set on Thursday night, when Geoff was at the church, working on some things, and it wasn't.  Someone, including the man who set the fire, could have been killed, but no one was.  Geoff could have lost his job, but he hasn't.  Insurance will cover not only rebuilding the church (although it's possible that the total rebuild could cost more than the insurance policy limit, it will at least cover the vast majority), but also Geoff's piano and most (if not all) of his music. 

Already there is something amazing happening at the church, too, which is that the community is coming together in ways that I haven't seen while we've been there.  The huge loss of the church building that so many of its members have cared so much about for so many years has caused grief that we are all sharing, together.  It is a reminder, as so many sudden losses are, of what matters most.  And just as I will never be grateful to my former employer for leaving me without a job (especially in a time when finding a new job has been, and continues to be, so difficult), I do not give thanks to the arsonist for starting this devastating fire that destroyed so much of what was once (and what will surely be again) a beautiful building beloved by so many.  And yet it would also be wrong to fail to notice the good that so often does arise out of loss, or to fail to realize that sometimes the events that endanger our previous stability the most are the same events that create new possibility.  They may even show us where our real strengths lie. 

Or at least this is what I am telling myself, even in the midst of my own grief and confusion.  And even in the midst of this grief, knowing even less about tomorrow than I did a few months ago, I am amazed to find that I do have some measure of peace. I try to hold it close to my heart, for as long as it will stay.

Comments

[Jennigma.wordpress.com]

Beautiful. I needed to read this today.

[Cheryl]

This is lovely.

[JayneLM]

I'm convinced that a happy and contented life is often a matter of surrender rather than for ever seeking control. My own life experiences have shown me that whatever plans I may have had God, (or the cosmos), thought otherwise. I'm glad you have found some peace.

[Laura]

I read a bit of this before leaving for work and thought about it all the way in. I'm so glad no one was hurt and what a great blessing that the insurance coverage will be such a help. In the interim, are there pieces of music that Geoff needs that perhaps other musicians might be willing to donate? (Many folks end up with extra copies of things and just never get rid of them.) I'd be happy to post something to my Facebook page (I know a lot of musicians) if there are specific needs and a place to send things. . . Or I can just pray for you all and send gigantic virtual hugs.

[nikki]

I, also, needed to read this today. Thank you for your insight. I hope that I will find peace in the uncertainty soon too.

[Jocelyne]

Jessamyn
After reading your post, I went to get Stumbling on Happiness. You are an inspiration.
Keep on writing!

[Cindy]

Jessamyn, well said. Thanks for sharing this. I agree with your thoughts about peace & am so happy for your epiphany. I'm also sorry for the grief you & your church family are experiencing.

[joy]

i have told myself to live in the now so many times. but it wasn't until i just read what you wrote that it clicked. thank you so much writing this... and all that you write. i, too, needed to read this today.

[Melody]

I just stumbled onto your blog because I just saw the St Olaf choir (in a different city) and was googling "This House of Peace" to find out more about the composer - the link to your blog came up and I clicked on it. But there are no accidents - I guess I was supposed to read this today. You have described my life in this post. Everything you have been struggling with has been my struggle too. Beautiful words. I will not forget any of them. Thank you.

[Jessamyn]

Thanks so much, everyone. And Melody, how wonderful and amazing! (Although not so wonderful that you've been having such a struggle - that part sucks, but at least if it's similar to my struggle, then you're healthy and loved. I hope you're feeling ok today.) You're very very welcome. Thank YOU for commenting.