It’s about ten to midnight.
I can hear the shrill spark of traffic on the street. It’s probably not too much because it’s a Sunday, but nowadays in Bangalore it hardly matters - Sunday or any other day. There is a relatively new pedestrian crossing right outside my window, since there is a pre-university and graduate college just across the street; and every time a heavily laden truck or bus negotiates the raised crossing, I can hear the protest of the axles and absorbers.
I came in late tonight; everyone at home is in bed already. They’re all early sleepers and early risers. As you can probably imagine, I’m neither, and proud of it. I find it obnoxious, inexcusable and absolutely mean that people rise or get to bed early.
I wonder what others do just before getting into bed. Maybe some pray. Others are buried in their tablets or laptops (worse still, their smartphones, which in any case is what they have done all day). There are those absolutely insufferable folk who actually plan their next day. Many of these are exactly the kind of people who will not bat an eyelid if nothing goes according to plan, which begs the question ‘why plan in the first place?’ Some of these will hyperventilate if so much as a fly sits in a place unplanned.
For me, the time before I get into bed is all mine. So many people make demands of me all day and they have to be dealt with, spoken to, ‘answered’ in one sense or another, ‘actioned’ in whatever way, fended off, lied to if absolutely unavoidable, or lost in some sure way if they chase after me. But the time before bed is mine, all mine. Yes, I pray. I have no delusions that I can indeed manage on my own.
As I look around the room, I see a hundred things lying about. They’ve been lying about for years and years and I wisely let sleeping dogs lie (I don’t have a dog). Some of these things lying about are my dreams. Yes, there are some crushed flowers among those. But I’d rather not speak of them.
There are other things that are simply out of place, that is, out of their proper places. They need to be restored, but for the life of me I cannot find the strength. Or perhaps I’m just lazy. Whether I cannot find the strength or I’m lazy depends on who’s asking.
There’s a curious silence during that hour before bed; things and people who spent the day screaming their heads off at me are strangely quiet. I don’t see what the point of this is, knowing full well the screaming will start again tomorrow. Why the space? If there’s one thing that kills me a little at a time it is the intervening night that allows those who scream at me to renew their strength. I wish they would spend it all at once and then be quiet forever.
Don’t imagine the people who scream at me are all others.
One of the other curious things about this hour before bed is that this other person shows up.
He’s exactly like me, so much me that it’s scary.
What’s scary about him? I’ll tell you what’s scary about him – he never sleeps. But even so, strangely, he only shows up an hour before bedtime. When I get into bed, he won’t let me sleep, simply because he’s awake and he intends to stay awake all night, till daylight. He is all of the ones who scream at me all day long. He is them, but he is also me.
If the day had mistakes, he’s not going to let me forget. He’s going to dredge them up. If the day had some small good things or new beginnings, he will batter those things into non-existence and make me forget the good.
I sleep, externally unencumbered, but he puts all my Waterloos around me, so that I must wake with them.
Do you ever think of a big, well-fed bully beating the legs of a wobbly, malnourished child? I do.
There’s just one way to fend him off.
It doesn’t always work. I mean, I believe it always works (and it in fact does), but some nights he beats me so badly that there is no strength to use that way; and I find I’ve fallen asleep without putting him out of the room, so he’s there first thing in the morning.
I told you I pray. I indeed pray. I pray because there’s no other way. If the day has been a battle, why should the hour before bed be a worse battle than that which raged all day? So, I pray.
There is a place I go. When I go there, this other me does not follow, because it’s his Kryptonite.
Some of you probably go there too.
It’s a cross on a hill and a man hangs on it.
For all like me, who have their ‘other me’s’ beating them up all night, there is this place. This Cross. This hill.
More than the cross and more than the hill, there is One.
When I go there, I find that a grisly place dripping with heavy tissue-tinged drops of human blood has turned into…… a garden. Have you ever caught the whiff of fresh blood off a living person who is about to die? What do you think that smells like? What do you think that smells like?
Yes. A grisly place, the finest garden on earth. The cleanest, freshest winds blow there. The fragrance, quite literally, is divine. And I turn to find I am alone. The other me did not follow me into this garden. I am not alone with myself, like the hour before bed. The other me is NOT THERE.
I sometimes wonder how my mind can still bring up this picture. But it’s real; I cannot deny it because it is real. How can the other me not know the power of this place? This blood-tinged garden that wards him off firmly and surely?
And then I know I am not alone with myself, but I am alone with Someone else.
I cannot tell you what we speak about.
***********************************************************
Now it’s almost time to sleep. I know I will sleep, because the room is the garden now. The other me has been asked to leave.
There are still a hundred things lying about. They will be put into their places. I don’t know when and I don’t know how. And I’m not asking. And my dreams? It’s just so liberating to know someone actually understands my dreams and takes them seriously – when I think of the fact that not even I could do that for myself. There’s a line from a song I love – “you heard my dreams, while the rest of the world closed its ears”
Strange things, my dreams. I am astounded because they still live. Then I know it’s only because of the garden. The blood. The cross on the hill. And most of all, because of Someone.
Now this has brought tears and I hate tears.
My bed is a lovely place. It’s slovenly, smells like me, and is pitted and dented. All the same, I have it and I’m thankful. Today, there’s a book by the pillow – it’s called Rattigan: Plays: One. Terence Rattigan was born in 1911 and died in 1977. He wrote drama.
There’s another book too, but that book lives inside my head. It keeps me alive.
My blanket is lovely. Light purple and yellow squares with embroidered flowers.
I pray for dreams that are not tinged with yesterday.
It’s now ten to one, and the street is actually quiet. The week has begun.
************************************************************
Some days. The garden. The cross on the hill. The One.
Some other days, the other me. Resourceful chap – he can never forget anything, good or bad.
Some days I am more alive than life itself. Other days, I survive.
Man indeed does not live by bread alone, I’ve realized, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the One Who gives life.
I told you before. I pray. I harbor no delusions that I can make it alone.
I can hear the shrill spark of traffic on the street. It’s probably not too much because it’s a Sunday, but nowadays in Bangalore it hardly matters - Sunday or any other day. There is a relatively new pedestrian crossing right outside my window, since there is a pre-university and graduate college just across the street; and every time a heavily laden truck or bus negotiates the raised crossing, I can hear the protest of the axles and absorbers.
I came in late tonight; everyone at home is in bed already. They’re all early sleepers and early risers. As you can probably imagine, I’m neither, and proud of it. I find it obnoxious, inexcusable and absolutely mean that people rise or get to bed early.
I wonder what others do just before getting into bed. Maybe some pray. Others are buried in their tablets or laptops (worse still, their smartphones, which in any case is what they have done all day). There are those absolutely insufferable folk who actually plan their next day. Many of these are exactly the kind of people who will not bat an eyelid if nothing goes according to plan, which begs the question ‘why plan in the first place?’ Some of these will hyperventilate if so much as a fly sits in a place unplanned.
For me, the time before I get into bed is all mine. So many people make demands of me all day and they have to be dealt with, spoken to, ‘answered’ in one sense or another, ‘actioned’ in whatever way, fended off, lied to if absolutely unavoidable, or lost in some sure way if they chase after me. But the time before bed is mine, all mine. Yes, I pray. I have no delusions that I can indeed manage on my own.
As I look around the room, I see a hundred things lying about. They’ve been lying about for years and years and I wisely let sleeping dogs lie (I don’t have a dog). Some of these things lying about are my dreams. Yes, there are some crushed flowers among those. But I’d rather not speak of them.
There are other things that are simply out of place, that is, out of their proper places. They need to be restored, but for the life of me I cannot find the strength. Or perhaps I’m just lazy. Whether I cannot find the strength or I’m lazy depends on who’s asking.
There’s a curious silence during that hour before bed; things and people who spent the day screaming their heads off at me are strangely quiet. I don’t see what the point of this is, knowing full well the screaming will start again tomorrow. Why the space? If there’s one thing that kills me a little at a time it is the intervening night that allows those who scream at me to renew their strength. I wish they would spend it all at once and then be quiet forever.
Don’t imagine the people who scream at me are all others.
One of the other curious things about this hour before bed is that this other person shows up.
He’s exactly like me, so much me that it’s scary.
What’s scary about him? I’ll tell you what’s scary about him – he never sleeps. But even so, strangely, he only shows up an hour before bedtime. When I get into bed, he won’t let me sleep, simply because he’s awake and he intends to stay awake all night, till daylight. He is all of the ones who scream at me all day long. He is them, but he is also me.
If the day had mistakes, he’s not going to let me forget. He’s going to dredge them up. If the day had some small good things or new beginnings, he will batter those things into non-existence and make me forget the good.
I sleep, externally unencumbered, but he puts all my Waterloos around me, so that I must wake with them.
Do you ever think of a big, well-fed bully beating the legs of a wobbly, malnourished child? I do.
There’s just one way to fend him off.
It doesn’t always work. I mean, I believe it always works (and it in fact does), but some nights he beats me so badly that there is no strength to use that way; and I find I’ve fallen asleep without putting him out of the room, so he’s there first thing in the morning.
I told you I pray. I indeed pray. I pray because there’s no other way. If the day has been a battle, why should the hour before bed be a worse battle than that which raged all day? So, I pray.
There is a place I go. When I go there, this other me does not follow, because it’s his Kryptonite.
Some of you probably go there too.
It’s a cross on a hill and a man hangs on it.
For all like me, who have their ‘other me’s’ beating them up all night, there is this place. This Cross. This hill.
More than the cross and more than the hill, there is One.
When I go there, I find that a grisly place dripping with heavy tissue-tinged drops of human blood has turned into…… a garden. Have you ever caught the whiff of fresh blood off a living person who is about to die? What do you think that smells like? What do you think that smells like?
Yes. A grisly place, the finest garden on earth. The cleanest, freshest winds blow there. The fragrance, quite literally, is divine. And I turn to find I am alone. The other me did not follow me into this garden. I am not alone with myself, like the hour before bed. The other me is NOT THERE.
I sometimes wonder how my mind can still bring up this picture. But it’s real; I cannot deny it because it is real. How can the other me not know the power of this place? This blood-tinged garden that wards him off firmly and surely?
And then I know I am not alone with myself, but I am alone with Someone else.
I cannot tell you what we speak about.
***********************************************************
Now it’s almost time to sleep. I know I will sleep, because the room is the garden now. The other me has been asked to leave.
There are still a hundred things lying about. They will be put into their places. I don’t know when and I don’t know how. And I’m not asking. And my dreams? It’s just so liberating to know someone actually understands my dreams and takes them seriously – when I think of the fact that not even I could do that for myself. There’s a line from a song I love – “you heard my dreams, while the rest of the world closed its ears”
Strange things, my dreams. I am astounded because they still live. Then I know it’s only because of the garden. The blood. The cross on the hill. And most of all, because of Someone.
Now this has brought tears and I hate tears.
My bed is a lovely place. It’s slovenly, smells like me, and is pitted and dented. All the same, I have it and I’m thankful. Today, there’s a book by the pillow – it’s called Rattigan: Plays: One. Terence Rattigan was born in 1911 and died in 1977. He wrote drama.
There’s another book too, but that book lives inside my head. It keeps me alive.
My blanket is lovely. Light purple and yellow squares with embroidered flowers.
I pray for dreams that are not tinged with yesterday.
It’s now ten to one, and the street is actually quiet. The week has begun.
************************************************************
Some days. The garden. The cross on the hill. The One.
Some other days, the other me. Resourceful chap – he can never forget anything, good or bad.
Some days I am more alive than life itself. Other days, I survive.
Man indeed does not live by bread alone, I’ve realized, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the One Who gives life.
I told you before. I pray. I harbor no delusions that I can make it alone.
For some reason, I am reminded of a song.
ReplyDeletehttp://youtu.be/RY7S6EgSlCI