Infirmity

I have always imagined that I would one day contract a serious and obscure disease that would require much tending to and severely impede day-to-day life. Maybe I thought this was romantic in the style of Gothic novels where the heroine always contracted consumption. Why is that even romantic? Perhaps because of the idea of people weeping about you or being nursed by a noble, handsome man. It taps into the ideal of the fragile woman. I think most women want to be fragile sometimes, even if they won't admit it.

But of course I understand that chronic illness is not romantic and that it is on the whole quite horrible. I being it up because I have felt quite ill since I woke up with my European jetlag. I feel dizzy, too warm, stuffed up, and completely at the mercy of convulsive coughing fits. It is as if some gooey substance has infiltrated my head and left me with little will or intelligent thought. And so, I've excused myself of quite a lot. Of course nobody can expect anything of me, I think; I'm sick. It's only a few days. But what of those who feel the weight of sickness all the time? How must they live?

And a lot of me thinks that sickness is a legitimate excuse for a lot of things. But it also makes me think of how much we can excuse due to infirmity of some sort-- and what we call infirmity. I notice myself excusing my actions based upon the fact that I'm tired or PMSing or just having a bad day. Every day has its own infirmity, its own handicap. And if there isn't one readily available, there really is always something to fall back on: depravity. I'm only human, of course.

But that's exactly it. If we didn't have some kind of debilitation, then there would be no failings to excuse. Well, perhaps Adam and Eve are the exceptions to this principle. Because they were not fallen, their sin was entirely without rational excuse. But so is ours. We were given the gift of life and freedom by God, and we squandered it. There is no excuse for failing him daily.

These are just some thoughts that come to me about my own expectations for my behavior. Should I have different expectations for myself based upon circumstances? It would seem so. But one can see how far it can be taken. Today, I'm sick. But next week, I'm also sick-- just in a different sense. There is always infirmity. But Christ died to bridge that gap of weakness for us. So now, we can get out of bed.

(In a philosophical sense. In reality, I'm probably going back to bed right now.)

Je commence.

I almost always start journals with some kind of disclaimer (to myself?) about how I probably won't really write in it, leading to some kind of general self-depracation. From there, I move into some sweeping statements about the colour of my life at the moment, perhaps with a bit of back story to give context to "where I am" at the moment. Then, I identify some defining issues of my life that I inform the "reader" that I will be predominantly dealing with, including some relationships and some internal issue I am working out. Lastly, I put forth a few petitions to God to forgive me for my vast self-centeredness and other failings I have idenitified over the course of this, the initial entry of diary X.

So, in my disturbingly self-aware style, I am going to dispense with all that, simply for the reason that I would be aware of it while doing it.

The funny thing is that I have always written diaries as if someone other than myself were going to read them. Scratch that-- I have always written diaries as if everyone was going to read them, albiet after my death. You see, I was going to become a famous novelist, and they would posthumously compile my early writings into a volume that would inspire professors to write biographies about the vastness of my genius. I used to be obsessed with child prodigies. Strangely enough, I lost interest when I missed the deadline to be classified as one.

But one thing that I take away from that obsession is the interesting point that there is really no such thing as a writing prodigy. Certainly, children and teenagers can have an unusual level of astuteness and a knack for phrasing. But there is simply no such thing as a profound child poet as anything aside from an accident. Writing is an art that absolutely requires a depth of human experience. They say to write what you know, and how much can any eighteen-year-old know? It is a thought at once depressing and encouraging. No matter how hard I work, I can't acquire the profundity of someone much more mature and experienced. But it is wonderful to know that my writing will mature as I do.

If Jesus Christ is the incarnation of the Word, then we would do well to note how deeply words are tied to the experience of being human. So I will try to write some things, because I am alive.