I have knowledge though do not ask me to explain. The Giver of all did not choose to gift me with reason, so I cannot say whether its lack is a curse or a blessing. However, I am not speechless in its absence, for though no one would consider me logical, I do feel, and know, profoundly. Deep within my bowels, something stirs, an urgent imperative, demanding expression.
This need will not be calmed. There are times when it rests, but it never sleeps. Though most of the time the life that I sustain is curiously unaware of it, the urge continues to toss and turn, never completely quiet, always expectantly waiting, ready, flexing its muscles for action. Resting, it still remains restless.
I do not act in vengeance, giving in to my urges to right the wrongs that have been done to me. I know they exist though they are not attached to faces or names. I cannot rationalize, therefore it is not for me to judge right from wrong though I’ve heard it said that humankind is thus gifted—or is it cursed?
These creatures that take their lives from mine both think and reason, but they still do not understand. I feel, and though I cannot defend an argument, I am happier than they. I sense their confusion, but I do not share it. They give with one hand, and take with another; bless and curse with the same tongue; heal, then deliberately kill. They are my keepers, yet I wonder at their goodwill. I cannot tell you why, but I am scarred by their reality. I feel it.
They are so sure, yet so uncertain. They walk upright doubled over by doubts. They smile, hiding deadly edges of anger, hatred, and fear. I feel this, though I cannot know its cause. Are they superior to me? I do not know. Should I want to interpret life as they do? Even this desire to stretch beyond the limits of the understanding that the Giver has provided, causes me to tremble.
It was the Giver’s prerogative to withhold from me what He gave them. In that, I am content. I am not inspired to wish for what they have, for the ability to make sense out of one’s existence seems a fragile present, easily twisted and broken. My urges are clumsy and I would surely damage such a gift. I will obey the instincts, and leave reason to other beings.
A different trembling struggles deep within. I sense again its restless spirit. For what does it yearn? What freedom does it seek? If I possessed reason, I would need to find the answers. I would investigate, wouldn’t I? Perhaps not. Those who possess this ability to analyze seem to choose to channel it in other directions, far away from those deepest yearnings that I share with them, those feelings I embrace which they deny.
I choose my yearnings. I seek their expression. I want their end.
The end I long for is the same as what I once enjoyed in the beginning. Back at the beginning, I did not receive what originated with me, thrust perishing into my arms. I did not have to cover them with my cloak, holding them in sacred trust for some future moment. Then, I supported life and didn’t take it, however innocently I am required to do so now. That was a time before the human mind literally fought itself to the death.
It’s coming. The urge strengthens, birthing an avalanche of sound and movement that I will not contain, even if I could. Giver of all, I would gladly destroy myself to embrace you once again, as it was in the beginning. Hear my cry. Feel my pain. Listen to my voice. The life I sustain, some of it at least, calls out to you with a single voice, clearly, decidedly, wholeheartedly.
Can your voice pierce the babel of thoughts that curse humankind and be heard through mine? I will give voice to my urges and speak all the louder with that expectation.
And the earth moved.
“The creation waits in eager expectation … subjected to frustration, not by its own choice … groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time” —Romans 8:19, 20, 22 NIV
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