Hope

also known as the final installment of The Fourth Series (read The Fourth Series from the bottom post to this top post)

Life is short.

Or it’s long.

I don’t know.

I’ve written about this idea a few times.

Like a lot of things in life, time is relative.

And when you look at it one way, it might mean one thing.

And when you look at it a different way, it finds itself meaning another thing.

The exact opposite.

That’s when you find the meaning in life in the first place.

That’s when you find the meaning in life to begin with.

Or end with.

Life warps you like this – you are warped in life like this.

Maybe not you. But definitely me.

And I have a sneaking suspicion that many of you

Find yourselves like me.

If you ever find yourself – you know where I’m going with this.

I have a sneaking suspicion that many of you

Are pretty similar to me

I’m not that unique.

Not that different.

Perhaps that’s the problem.

I want to be unique.

I want to be different.

I want to fit in.

But I don’t.

I want my cake.

And to eat it, too.

But I can’t bake.

Or buy it from you.

Michelle wondered how she got to that point. She was in her car, driving to pick up a piece of Canvas art she’d found online and taken notice to the moment she’d seen it. It was just after noon, just after she spent her morning reading on her porch, with the brisk winter air dancing against her exposed skin – the small amount that was not covered by comfort. With her morning coffee warming her up, it was the best prescription for waking her up. Slightly groggy when she’d awakened at nine, she was able to sleep in an hour past the sun’s light rising, and it, too, was time for hers.

The book was The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. She’d ordered it and consumed it immediately. There were other books she hadn’t ordered on such an impulsive whim and other books she didn’t so quickly take in. Other genres of fiction, self-help, and biographical, historical non-fiction. Ones that sat under her bed or in her closet for months before she could bring herself to read them. Those were in the past months, when she had spent all of her time in her room but didn’t spend the time reading; didn’t spend the time finding the strength or even the desire to find the strength to move from her bed – much less to place her hand over the side and search underneath it for a book she had researched on Amazon, expecting it to be the one to tell her how to have the will power to make it all click, once and for all.

It was a thirty-minute drive in each direction, so including getting out of her car, walking inside, and completing the purchase, it was going to be close to an hour and thirty-minute round trip. Michelle didn’t mind.

Sitting in traffic, Michelle thought about the past months when life just didn’t seem like it was worth living. She remembered when she was a kid and also a teenager, the beach was full of fun and associated with nothing but good memories. Then she recalled over the summer when she drove to the beach at 2am, to sit on the sand and listen to the waves of the ocean, unable to sleep, thinking she was losing it, and being quite sure in this belief. She walked out to the water, to let the tide gently break over her toes. It was so inviting, she stayed there standing for a minute, before returning to her designated spot to sit alone on the sand in darkness. Normal people don’t do this, she fathomed. She wasn’t normal though, she told herself.

Now traveling at an expected speed, Michelle kept her eyes on the road, but while maintaining her car between the dotted lines, allowed her vision to occasionally drift to the streetlights, buildings, and sidewalks, passengers, pedestrians, trees, and birds and other cars and other roads that surrounded her. She contemplated how many thoughts, how many efforts, how many people and lives went into creating these tangible feats like highways and intangible faiths, like the one in the system that regulates the highways. Society as a whole. She marveled at the miracle. Created by creatures that evolved from single-celled organisms, that now are composed of a symphony of interacting nerves, veins, and organs. The body as a whole. She marveled at the miracle.

The artwork she would soon be picking up was a painting of an ocean to resemble a heart rate. She understood the ocean will come and go forever but that the heart rate will one day end. The pulse has a finite timeline until it flatlines.

Going faster now, she was suddenly overcome with a wave of emotion: joy, appreciation, wonderment, and love for the world and even herself. The miracle was beautiful. To see what she was seeing, experience what she was feeling. To be thankful for it all. It was beautiful. She was so grateful for the opportunity to be here and to live it.

Although overcome, she was able to comprehend the situation. While she was better now, she wouldn’t always be. She wouldn’t always be period. But that’s part of life. And while she felt such a deep appreciation of how little could and should have been expected of humans and how far we’ve come, she held such a deep understanding that she would again have her doubts of the genus as a whole.

She pulled over and cried. She wasn’t overwhelmed. She was happy. She was happy to know she was capable of feeling again. And she asked herself why others didn’t take the time to sit back in their car and sometimes think about it, pull over, and cry, too. But then she remembered every person’s timeline is different. And every person is entitled to live it as seen fit. Because one day, that pulse will no longer be seen on the monitor’s screen. The heart rate will flat line. When that time comes, the goal is to be at peace. The objective until then is to live a life how one deems fit, within the tolerable guidelines that we accept even if all are technically, subjectively right or wrong. Whether it’s to leave a legacy, improve the world, have a family, or simply to enjoy the time here; most likely in all cases, to be happy. Even if there is no defined meaning to it all. There are roads we’ve constructed to tell us where to go to pick up artwork. There aren’t roads to tell us how best to lead our lives or the right way to do so. The only real road is the “exit only” we will all one day take.

She put her car into drive once more. She had hope for the future. She had acceptance for the present. And she had appreciation for the past. For her and for others. Sometimes she’d be in park, and other times even in reverse. But she had hope. She was going to lead her life through the dark times and the good, sometimes alone, self-isolated on the shore, and other times she was going to celebrate the world. And she hoped others would, too. She hoped others would have it, too: hope.

The waves will break

Over the shoreline

The tide’s wake

Left behind

Our finite heart’s flat line

The waves will break

Past all of our time

Our one fate

Left behind

The definite end to our timeline

Hope is all I have in mind

To be okay when I leave my life for the shoreline