On Un-burdening

William F. Buckley, Jr. seems to me, to be one of those people, who didn’t (for the most part) allow himself to be burdened by anything in life. I am sure that like any human being, he has moments of anxiety, even despair. It’s only natural. But I can’t imagine Buckley being obsessed with every single action his mind and body made during the day. I believe that he understood what it means to be a finite human being, and knowing that his imagination can only go so far and that it needs guidance from God if it’s going to continue chugging along.

I thought about my own life and my need for perfection as a child—perfect grades, perfect way of life, perfect way of learning—obviously, a perfection, which was never attainable. This childish need for perfection continued into adulthood, and I soon found myself quite comparable to angst ridden, intellectual young women (English major most likely) of modernist novels, such as those of Joyce Carol Oates or Sylvia Plath’s heroine in The Bell Jar. That’s me! I yelled internally, as if being obsessive-compulsive was a good thing. But eventually we all learn, and step away from the chaotic madness we create for ourselves.

I realized that my mind was always living in the painful past or utopian future but never in the midst of the reality of the present. It was time to stop obsessing whether I’ll be afraid of death today or tomorrow, whether I will die today or tomorrow, whether it is better to have fish or chicken for dinner, whether I will ever write a book, whether I should take a nap or go for a walk, and so on, and so on. It was time to hear (truly hear) the verse: “Be still and know that I am God.”

Memories come and go in and out of our mind, and many of them come to us for unexplained reasons. One morning, when my husband and I were having one of our usual morning coffees, I started to aggressively itch my skin.

“What is it?” he said and looked at me, trying to discern yet another puzzle of possible physical ailments I might possess.

“My skin—I don’t know. I must have used too much hot water when I took a shower. Maybe we should bathe in a mountain stream, it would be invigorating!” I said half-jokingly.

And then, like a vision, a memory from my childhood burst onto my mind and heart. I was maybe 5 or 6, visiting family in Eastern Bosnia, spending time in a small village where my father was from. It was summer and everyone (and I mean, everyone) was out by the river, swimming and taking a reprieve from the work in the garden or in the field. The river was clear and surprisingly warm, despite its fast movement. I was attempting to swim, although it resulted more into a series of splashes, masquerading as the arm movements of an experienced swimmer.

A man entered the river, drenched himself in clear water and then shampooed his hair. A few splashes later, his thick, black hair was free of shampoo, and the air smelled like pine trees in Croatia. The movements of this man’s body were deliberate and precise, and he wasn’t (not in the least) attempting to control the river, or make it his own. On the contrary, he was in tune with the nature, in tune with the world. This man was not in the past (however painful or beautiful it may have been for him) nor was he in some ideal, impossibly attainable future. He was listening to the voice of God without ever even hinting at the act. It may have been a private moment for him, which he decided to share with his fellow idlers.

And here I am, twenty-five years later, thinking of that man, realizing that I don’t have to worry about death or whether we’re going to have fish or chicken for dinner.