Never Walked In High Heels

Through Fire and Friendship

By the time the phone was ringing on the other end of the line I questioned whether or not he ever wanted to hear from me again. It had been two years to the day since we last spoke and that conversation had not ended well. “Come back,” he had said to me. “Move to New York and…” for him the answers seemed so easy. To me they sounded trite. I screamed, he pushed back, and then nothing. That conversation was over and we went our separate ways.

The sound of an American telephone ringing its single long ring sounded foreign to me now. I had dialed the long-remembered number with a shaky hand after reading the news. His entire house had burned to the ground seven days before from being struck by lightening. And while no one was home on that fateful night, including his two dogs, nothing could be saved from the rubble. I called him out of gut reaction, thinking of his home and the beautiful things in it. In my younger days he had always seemed to me to be The Great Gatsby himself, with the exact home and life I had wanted. Yet, when he had invited me to do just that two years ago I had rejected him furiously, in a justified rage which burned out of control and smoldered for far too long. And now I hadn’t wanted his life for quite some time. I had my own. I am happy now, in London. Each day I find that my roots get deeper here, making me more and more stable in a town I am certain, for now at least, is my home. I had burned bridges with him to stay here. Now I wondered if he would let me swim back to meet him at the very least.

I wasn’t expecting him to pick up. He’s the type of man you always have to try a hundred and sixty seven times to get ahold of until it happens. I gasped his name and he shouted mine. And then the line went dead. Did he really hate me that much or had Skype failed me yet again? A screen popped up on my computer asking me a simple question: “Please tell us how you would rate your call?”

AWFUL. MISERABLE. I want to hunt down the moron who invented Skype this very moment and rip out his toenails after chucking my iMac into the River Thames. Somehow this wasn’t an option. I clicked cancel and redialed.

He picked up and said my  name first this time.

“Tell me what I can do to help you.”

“Nothing. Wait. No. Call me at this exact same time tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said reaching for my phone and wondering what meeting I had to cancel to make this call.

“Oh and, I’m sorry I have been such a crummy friend lately.”

“Me too.” We hung up. I couldn’t remember who forgave who.

“We are rebuilding,” he told me confidently. “It’ll take years to get it back to where it was, but we want to do it. I feel obligated in a way. It was such a lovely house and just added so much to the town.” I knew he was right. The home had most likely been featured in a plethora of home and garden magazines in the past two years. He had always loved opening his home up to people. I could tell this is what he was missing the most. “And when its all done we’ll have the biggest party you can imagine.” I already knew I wanted to be there.

He and I spoke for over an hour, which, for a man fielding calls from insurance people while trying to rebuild his life, is a very long time. I told him of my own fires over the past years, more metaphorical than his, perhaps, but every bit as searing. Two years ago he caught me at the front end of it. These fires were far from being put out but at least, for now they seemed to be under control.

“It sounds to me as if there is more than one way to burn a house,” his voice had changed dramatically. He was right. My own fires had forced me to stay here. Even when he could not comprehend it, I had to stay in London. I could not go ‘home.’ There was no home to go back to anymore. It is true, once you leave home, you can’t go back again.

There was the ash and rubble of the past several years. There were times of playing the fiddle while the flames raged on because there was nothing left to do. From all of this I had stumbled out, changed and transformed into a woman rather than the teenage girl he met thirteen years before. A few short years ago I thought fires shouldn’t happen. Now I’m a bit better at calmly walking through them without getting as burned. My friend had missed a good many of these fires over the past two years, even though they had been burning long before that. Maybe if he had been around the flames wouldn’t have gotten so high and enveloped me as much. But then again, without it all burning down, I wouldn’t have to get up out of the ashes and rebuild either. Without that, I wouldn’t be able to off my strength as a grown woman. Now that we had reconnected after two years I was his equal. And when everything goes up in smoke around you, sometimes what you need most is a friend who has also gone through the rubble and made it out the other side.

“It sounds as if you are exactly where you belong.” The silence was deafening on my end as I let these words sink it. This was what I longed to hear him say these past two years. It was all over. This fire had been smothered, the rubble cleared, and out of the ashes and destruction from two years ago came a new and stronger friendship, made purer by the flames.

“Let me know know if I can do anything for you.” Things were winding down and I just wanted to reach out and hold him in whatever way I could.

“I think you just did,” was all he said.

I hung up telling Skype that my call was ‘excellent with no problems.’ Walking into my room, I opened my window and looked over at Canary Wharf on a clear summer’s afternoon. I could feel my dress flapping at my ankles in the breeze. I think for my friend purified things were already appearing in the rubble after the fire. Our phone call was one of them and a redeemed friendship was another. They are small in the face of catastrophe, but they are glints and gleams of treasures  to come. What mattered was, after the fires, we both knew that there were some things worth the effort of digging out.

For someone who’s entire life seems to be based on the focus of going beyond the accepted borders to strive for excellence. It is easy not to put trust in the negativity that those around you expel. A Chinese proverb says, “Those who say it cannot be done should not interrupt the person doing it,” and if there are certain individuals who you know will be naysayers to your cause, your best bet is to avoid them at all possible cost. Unless of course, they were once positive about your ambitions and insisted on offering you encouragement during the difficult days. Last summer, I ran into such a teacher who for years before insisted that I would go far in life. She gave me every possible encouragement that she could muster and four years ago I was incredibly grateful. Starting out on my own and attempting to get my bearings as well as get directions. This summer however, she offered no such encouragement. Instead I found her cold, harsh, negative. Her own life had been degraded in recent years and she found it necessary to do the same for anyone else she came across, including me. Where there was once warm support and encouragement, there was now fatalism.

After class one evening I found myself hiding in a brick garage off of Tottenham Court Road, the hot tears running down my face and spilling over my eyes almost uncontrollably. Among other things I could think of to do, I finally rang up a friend of mine who was sitting at home watching television and told her of the confrontation. “She told me I would be better off living in a home.”

“What! In what context?!” I explained the situation saying that the altercation finally ended with her stating that the best bet for me would be to only work for the disabled population for the rest of my life.

“Is it true?” I asked, fearing the response.

“Of course not, don’t be stupid.”

I once asked my pastor when a person can tell the difference between perseverance and plain stubbornness. He explained that in the first, your closest friends and loved ones will encourage you. In the second, when those that know you best begin to question your motives and actions you know its time to take a step backward and reevaluate the aim of your self journey. I always took this advice as wise and solid but then that night, huddled on Tottenham Court Road, I realized something else. Sometimes, in the course of your journey, the people that you assumed were closest to you actually stopped traveling by your side a few miles back and they are no longer your top advisors or safe places in which to store confidence. They are in fact, no longer with you.

Sometimes the goals of a person don’t need to change, the entire system needs to be reevaluated.

It’s always shocking when someone you thought was constantly going to be supportive and there for you says, “Thus far will I travel with you on the road, but no further.” Either they no longer have the energy to encourage you or they disagree with your choice of destinations, perhaps they have come into their own crises in life which are causing them to reevaluate everything. Regardless of the reasoning, of course at first all you feel is abject betrayal, the idea that this individual was going to be a pillar of strength for your cause and now has backed out. Then, you have a choice…stay with the person as they have stopped traveling down your path in the hopes that eventually they will begin moving again. Or, leave them there and keep going, not waiting for the fallen pillar of strength to reassemble. Here you find the test between the value of the relationship and the value of chasing your dreams. Sometimes one more costly than the other, and often times you cannot have both.

A relationship does not necessarily have to end when such a person decides they can no longer support you. But, I have made the conscious decision to end a few as I did with my teacher on Tottenham Court Road that evening. I can’t speak to her reasons for insisting that I change the course of my life. I’m sure in her mind they were the humane ideas to express. But I know, that I can no longer depend on support from her. Often times we are unable to stay where we lose our friends and we find that the dream drives us forward even when they insist that they will not come with us. Sometimes such people do get moving again and we welcome them back, but often times the split is permanent. That evening I knew that such a split had occurred, one in which the divide would be permanent. And all I could do was come out of the garage, fling it over my shoulder, and head further down the road by myself. Hoping that somehow, my old teacher and I would cross paths again.

It’s the signs of the season. Every single coffee shop changes their plain white cups to red ones with snowflakes on them in an effort to be more festive. The light on the trees sparkle and cause domestic disturbances across the country because he didn’t hang the lights the way she thought they would look appealing. Everything is green, red, or blue even if it doesn’t mean to be particularly festive. Our brains work it into that exact classification. Christmas brings out of everyone the kind and excessive spirit; and the token cripple on the street gets all of it. It comes in the form of doors opening and baristas who refuse to charge me for a cup of coffee. At Christmas time I consistently get money handed to me by complete strangers on the street as if I was some Las Vegas hooker.

I don’t know what they expect me to do with this small fortune that they generously give me in the name of Christmas spirit. Sometimes when it happens I am headed out to the office in a suit and five inch stiletto heels, my hair done up in a tight bun, and the stresses of business pressing on my mind. Do they expect me to buy a weeks worth of groceries with it? Is it simply a nice gesture so I can buy myself a little something special? I’m always confused on how exactly to respond and despite looking, I have yet to find a manners book which adequately explains the protocol of accepting money on the street from perfect strangers.

When I was younger this sort of behavior used to happen me all year round. It took other forms of course. I would be in the grocery store looking around in certain aisles and a perfect stranger decided to get whatever it was on the top-shelf which I happened to be looking at, bring it down and put it in my basket. It didn’t matter if I voiced that I wanted it or not; the product was being stared at and therefore it ought to be mine. I thought that this type of behavior would go away in London since it is the land of the stiff upper lip and somewhat emotionally repressed individual. In addition, I thought that maybe with age and a business suit the alms I was given would stop as well. For the most part I was right, it does. Except during the most wonderful time of the year. Then it seems to be a charity free for all.

To make matters worse I am quite literally living in the homeland of “Tiny Tim.” The Dickensian idea of the crippled child who loves God and blesses everyone seems to run rampant on television as every single BBC channel seems to show a different version of ‘A Christmas Carol.” From December 1^st through the 25^th it’s like everyone wants to see themselves as the redeemed Scrooge and rather than buying the goose in the window and sending it to Mr. Cratchit, they do the modern equivalent by offering to pay for my chai tea latte with soy milk or simply place a fiver in my lap and patting my head as they go by. It seems, spited as I may be, suddenly when the baby Jesus’ come out and ice skating is on the top of every fashionable young persons to-do list; everyone wants to be in a Dickens novel and so they race to the closest person with a disability they can find.

The more I fight their good intentions, assuring them that I don’t need their money, I own my own company and can get along just fine thank you very much, the more they insist. And so it becomes a circular debate in the extremes. They want to give me the money and I keep saying I don’t want it; thus making me look like the more humble individual and so they want to give it to me even more. Usually I lose the fight simply because my hands don’t work and so when they thrust the gifts into my lap I am unable to give the cash back to them before they pat me on the head and run off. Usually I am quickly able to find someone who is truly in need to give it to. After all, that is what the original giver wished to have happen with that portion of their hard earned income.

I am sure there was a time in my life where I fit the stereotype of Tiny Tim very well. I was young, loved God, and decisively optimistic. While I still fit into those categories, as an adult I now own my own company and wear skinny jeans and knee-high boots rather than the modest clothing that such a character would wear. However, it became clear that I was a long way off from outgrowing the public’s perception that I am the innocent disabled child that is able to melt hearts and bring joy; regardless of the fact that I had no sleep, have been suffering from cramps all day, and managed to get into a huge fight with my roommate about whether or not ketchup should be refrigerated. Even at my age and having I still don’t know how to stop the Christmas charity of being given money by complete strangers. I would like to stop it completely because where I come from, throwing money at a woman going down the street means something that no doubt would make Tiny Tim blush.

A few weeks ago I witnessed my friend marry I guy I don’t particularly like. It’s not that he’s a bad person, but there are several red flags in their relationship already which make me very uncomfortable and I recognize these signs by failures in my own rocky friendships. It’s one of those situations where someone is so passive aggressive that it is hard to point to anything they are doing particularly wrong, but nonetheless  there are always stressful situations being handled very poorly.

When I last saw her before the wedding I tried everything I could possibly think of to understand what exactly she saw in this young man, and as a hidden agenda, I tried everything possible to dissuade her from marriage without saying outrightly “I don’t like the guy.” I was always hoping that by my questions, she would begin to question herself.  But the answers she gave me also satisfied her and so I returned home feeling frustrated that she was so convinced she was right.

I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m at an age where I have started to see my friends make mistakes. Huge mistakes. And I’m also at a point in my life where I am, perhaps for the first time, old enough to realize there is nothing I can do about those mistakes that they so readily endure. I can ramble all I want about my opinions but at the end of the day, many of my friends willingly choose not to listen at all and thus I have often learned it is best to say nothing and not ruin the friendship which might someday become crucial if my friends are ever unfortunate enough to fall into the mishaps that I unwillingly foresee. Often there is little I can do but sit and wait.

For this particular friend, it would be different if the guy she was going to marry was abusive or if she herself were somehow disabled or particularly vulnerable to living with a man who is far from being on par with excellence. However, in this particular case it is neither. I don’t think the day will come where he will ever turn around and beat his wife; and should she ever want to leave provided that her body continues to obey her as it does now, my friend will have no difficulty packing her own bags and walking out the door (or packing his bags and shoving him out).

Often it seems that the most loving thing is to give a friend the freedom to make mistakes while at the same time committing yourself loving them. I know this because I have gotten myself into similar, albeit more temporary situations. After one particularly hard separation, a friend called me and admitted that he saw it coming months before. “Why didn’t you tell me,” I bemoaned half angrily, half in mourning. He pointed out that despite his best intentions, I probably wouldn’t have listened anyways. And indeed knowing my faults as I do, had he expressed his reservations it might have made me all the more stubborn when it was time to get out. Forcing me to listen to him would without a doubt made the situation ten times worse.

I watch them walk down the aisle. Perhaps I am imagining problems or telling futures that belong to someone else and not to my friend. There is little I can do now as she prepares to put the ring on his finger and announce to everyone that they know their love is a commitment they are willing to work at no matter what the times may bring or the heartaches that may come as a result. All I can think sitting in the back pew, not knowing if I feel uncomfortable because everyone is feeling joy or something else telling me that this isn’t right.

I just hope they make it.

“I’m glad I don’t have to worry about any of that”, she began overconfidently. We were in the middle of a conversation about heaven and hell, faith, the afterlife, and the overall meaning of life. A friend who does everything possible not to think about these issues, finally stated not only her denial, but also her relief that these issues would never be a concern. She would never grow old, she would never have questions that for many remain unanswered regardless of having the best intentions to figure it all out in this life.

Many people I know often spend enormous amounts of energy swearing up and down that we are here by some sort of cosmic accident. A billion years ago something mutated and a couple thousand after that, something else mutated and so on and so forth so that there was a vast domino effect that actually took all of time thus far to create the world as we know it. Had the most miniscule thing gone wrong, we might not be here and overall they are okay with that. With age and penury suddenly people are faced with the limitations of human condition. All of the answers they clung close to throughout life, be it the idea that it doesn’t really matter or it matters only so long as we are capable of doing what we want, explodes in their face and they quickly begin to question the structure on which they built their life because their own physical structure is failing them. It is important that this usually comes at some point when they are often faced with the fact that their bodies, mind, their life as a whole, is going to fall short. In short, it’s when my friends get slapped in the face with the idea that they are human and not above breaking down physically or spiritually that the cosmos comes into question. Often I think it would be great not to have to be confronted with one’s own weaknesses until I was much older. To be able to go through most of life being perfectly capable of accomplishing exactly what I want, whether it’s running upstairs to get the book I forgot on my way out the door or running a marathon in order to raise money for breast cancer. Often I think it would be great not to be aware of all the conditions that I have become extremely aware of through having friends suffer through them. Most people in high school don’t know what any number of ailments or disabilities are and quite frankly they shouldn’t have to. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I always thought, to be like everyone else and not know that the struggle exists until I am a ripe old seventy something, retired, and living out my life exactly as an old person should. Watching my older friends (and sometimes, unfortunately, friends my own age) have that sudden flash of recognition in which they see for the first time that life is not as easy as they pre-supposed it was often causes my stomach to turn and myself want to cry out for them coming to the knowledge that I’ve always had and losing a sort of naivety and innocence that goes alongside Nietzche’s ubermensch inevitably when they lose this presumption, my friends begin to wonder if this is all there is in life, if we are just here by chance and if that’s all that matters.

For someone who has always been acutely aware of their weakness, who’s never had another option except for knowing the overwhelming truth, there is of course an advantage to this situation. Endurance and perseverance in a world that is made for perfectly able bodied people when the idea of perfection is extremely unrealistic for just about everybody in existence is absurd. Being in a state of physical adversity forces you to see the world as much bigger than yourself. It means that having to struggle more than most, you are forced to establish security beyond yourself knowing that, at any moment, you could become more dependent than you were the day before. It means not putting faith only in your own abilities, and it means knowing that there must be something greater than yourself no matter what that thing may be.

There are advantages and disadvantages of course to having what is considered the full capacity of a human being and losing it later in life and never having it to begin with. But as I watch my friends struggle with their own mortality, in many ways I am grateful for not having to do the same and being forced to ask the questions that are inevitable in life but always make everyone, regardless of age, extremely uncomfortable to have to ask. I am no one’s idea of a perfect human specimen, but I hope I am a richer human being for it.

I never grew up believing in Santa. My parents decided that perpetuating the belief in a man in a red suit coming down the chimney was the equivalent of lying to one’s child. (more strength here, you can’t equivocate the natural conclusion) A certain neighbor of mine had the opposite upbringing. He insists to this day that he believed in Santa Claus until he was twelve years old. When evidence began to point to the contrary, he would do everything possible to deny it and he says he can still remember the day when beyond a shadow of a doubt he was confronted with the truth and could go no further.

I find this story not just adorable but also amusing. This is a man who has now grown up to be a complete atheist, but in his youth insisted over and over in the reality of a figure who is completely unfounded in any truth. Today he claims my view of God is likewise. Perhaps it is the change between my friend when he was age eleven and today, he is thirty seven, that I find so captivating. One thing I do wish my parents, who always asserted that there was nothing redeemable about father Christmas, understood is that for a young person; a belief in Santa Claus exercises his faith muscles. The idea that a man could live who would love everyone and give of himself all year does seem absurd to all of us, regardless of this man choosing to wear a red suit or a crown of thorns. In short, someone who constantly gives is seen to be too good to be true.

In the upper highways that wind around Wisconsin, there was a farm that we would pass routinely. Every year it had a very large wooden cutout of Santa kneeling at the manger and taking his hat off out of respect for the baby Jesus. I remember this decoration vividly as the one that stood out, out of the thousands I saw each year. Looking back I realize it shows that even our fantasies point to a single man of peace.

In many ways, not having the opportunity to believe in Santa Claus didn’t matter. I grew up in a school that was mostly Jewish and had absolutely no use for Father Christmas. When I was older, it was my beliefs that seems fanciful to them rather my peers belief in Santa seeming like wishful thinking to me. Sticking to ones’ beliefs and inevitably tests faith so that we know that if it is something we truly believe or something we were taught. Often times, this stubbornness and belief in beings and ideas despite all the evidence against us separates things into two categories; both too good to be true and those that are so good they must be true.

There is one t-shirt in my wardrobe that I always make sure to set aside and wash myself in the coldest water possible. Despite being over 25 years old, it is still bright gold and the emblem blazes in front of it in that vaguely rustic vintage attempt to look cool which somehow always works. It fits me perfectly, which is ironic because in about 1978, it was my father’s, then it was my mother’s, and now it is mine. I started wearing it more so when I went away to college because both of my parents wore the exact same shirt during their college years. Somehow it feels fitting and because of its connection to both of my parents, it is without a doubt my favorite t-shirt. They wore it for years before I ever came along, having their own visions of what they hoped their future would hold; visions of family and multiple children, dreams of owning a farm somewhere and creating specialty food stuff that usually it takes a 22 year old to be crazy enough to dream up. They no doubt envisioned their ideal life as they were dating and heading towards marriage with the same optimism that I now have for my life.

The shirt itself has a Jesus fish on it and a Greek word meaning “Christ” written underneath as the emblem. It came from a sort of campus outreach group that was meant to find students looking for a new faith in life and show them what Christian love and hospitality looked like. In many ways, people still consider colleges the greatest mission field in America, and students that belong to such groups are supposed to have faith, goodness and values no matter what. In college, combined with the right amount of religion and reading the right books and just the right amount of sunny days lying on the quad we are able to find our dream and a certain optimistic happiness that once we graduate, the world will be ours and everything will turn out okay. That sort of faith is of course more difficult to hold on to. Like an old t-shirt, it becomes just a little more frayed around the edges every time it goes into the wash and every time anyone throws it in the machine I always wonder if the shirt will survive and if my faith will survive another crisis. The same thing can be said about keeping faith in life as can be said about wearing my parents old t-shirt. Every time it’s up for a good hard washing, I clench my teeth a bit praying that it doesn’t disintegrate in the dryer. Somehow it doesn’t, it always comes out feeling a bit more comfortable.

Sometimes being stretched and run under water, weighted down, and bumping into life with it’s many stains causes material to fall apart which we always assumed would hold together in the first place, but ultimately the young keep on dreaming about what their life will be like and there will be generations pass down their well worn faith and security in hopes that it will serve their children well And somehow the dreams of youth never quite come out in the wash.

I didn’t really have girlfriends until college. In high school I was far too busy and in many ways, far too miserable to trust anyone with my deepest darkest secrets. So it wasn’t until I went away to get a university education that I knew the magic of staying up late with popcorn and movies, sneaking scandalously when the boys were nowhere around, and enjoying a really good margarita. A girlfriend is someone you can not only do all these things with, but also allow yourself to let your guard down and allow yourself to be as girly, silly, and even scandalous with in ways that you would never do so in public company. After college we went our separate ways and now that I am a bit older, I’m realizing that it’s difficult to find new girlfriends.

Everything about a young woman’s world tells her to turn inwards. We go from spending Saturday nights at sleepovers or with cocktails and DVD’s to dates with a single guy that no one else is invited to. If we are lucky enough to fall in love and get married, the focus shifts from keeping up with our girlfriends to setting up a home and balancing the new adventures of living together while making ends meet and maintaining a career. Then inevitably come the children or the additional workload or both. Men get to go to pubs and have time together in which they drink and throw darts, but for women what exactly is a girl’s night out? Older girls will sometimes invite each other to what they call “girl’s night in” where they paint their nails and wear pink; having slumber parties that remind you of the teenage years. Men don’t need to be reminded of their teenage years; they never lost the ability to have “guy time.” But as women we go backwards, turning into the ultimate giggly girls and watching reruns of Sex and the City in order to feel not quite so juvenile. None of this is for me, I’m afraid.

Even if you fall in love with a soul mate and marry him, he will never be a girlfriend. Girlfriends watch each other grow up and listen to each other as they share insecurities about sex, child raising, hormones, all the little details in life that you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. The world encourages girlfriends which are unreasonable; irresponsible even, spending money on clothes and unnecessary knick knacks. Being superficial and silly all the time shrinks the value of a true girlfriend until she is replaced by the faux girlfriend who is obsessed with a combination of men and handbags while having all their conversations over cosmopolitans. For those people who only have the “faux girlfriend”; the fake girlfriend, I often wonder what they would do with the problems that broadside me on 2 a.m on a Thursday.

Truth is, all my girlfriends have sprawled out over the globe and perhaps because of the distance, we have been forced to stick close to each other. More often than not, we make accidental phone calls to one another at two o’ clock in the morning, forgetting the difference in times zones. Sometimes those middle of the night phone calls carry the most urgent news and the deepest desire for a friend; not a husband, not a mother, but a girlfriend to listen to the situation. When the 2 a.m. phone calls are by accident, we bolt out of bed anyways, excited to talk to one another at last. And when the 2 a.m.’s come with an urgent need, we are quite used to disturbing our beauty rest and having a conversation with the people we value the most. Like anything rare, when a girlfriend passes by, you can’t help but drop what you are doing to see if she needs anything on her way.

When I was little, I used to love when summer was finally winding down. In June I would come home from school crying and asking, “What will I do for three whole months without school?” Back then, life followed a plan and June/July/August represented a purposeful part of that plan. Worse yet, the rhythms of the year were definite. September meant new shoes and colored pencils as I was heading back to school. Then came Christmas, Valentines Day, and when I was just beginning to give up hope, came the dreaded three months without school. Now that I have twelve months a year without school, I’m not exactly sure what the end of summer means anymore.

The truth is, without consistently being in a classroom with the dates splashed on the bulletin board, I have difficulty telling what time of year it is anymore. The holidays marked by paper cutouts with snowflakes and candy canes stapled to the wall come and go without much recognition in my own life. There aren’t spring themed words or seasonal linear graphs that turn out to be in the shape of Santa Claus. Now the months just slip by and I am surprised on October 31^st, my doorbell rings and there are children asking for candy.

This of course is the crux of the change from childhood into independent adulthood. Your life is no longer well defined. You don’t have guide posts and deadlines to set. Grades, when you are a child, are a form of currency so that your first year out of college one can’t help but be a little bit confused when they hold cash in their hand rather than a report card. There is no rhythm to the seasons; there is no plan in what you are doing in your life and perhaps most disturbingly, there are no awards for perfect attendance.

If you are working in one of the creative fields such as a visual artist, actor, or writer, the situation is even worse. The days slip through your fingers as quickly as water until you realize you have spent the entire day looking at a blank computer screen and only managed to type out a few words. Here in this adult life, one is forced to quantify oneself not by merit or test grades, but by inner thoughts and actions. It’s the conversations that an individual has with themselves and the results thereof to give you an idea of their self worth. The rest of the world’s actions are justified by paychecks. When someone is an actress or writer, there is no such thing as regular paycheck and so the end of summer. As I continue to go to auditions and look at my blank screen while attempting to figure out what comes next.

Were it not for a gradual shift in weather, needing my jacket at night, pulling out the fall fashions and looking longingly through catalogues, I might not even notice the shift in seasons. This is one of the many reasons why I consider it a blessing to live in a place that has winter, spring, summer, and fall. For me the end of summer doesn’t mean the end of free time. As much as I miss the rhythm and cadence that comes from the school year, the product of it is actually a huge blessing. Western education teachers say money is the most precious form of currency, it does nothing to acknowledge the expensive nature of the economics of time, health, and happiness. I will continue to work on whatever, even if the year is ebbing away unnoticed. Nothing reminds me of that blessing now, more than the end of summer.

Last week I was watching my next door neighbor head off to her first day of school; her bright pink backpack and pigtails almost made the entire image look like a cliché rather than real life. Even though I swore I never would be, I was slightly jealous of her returning to the structure that comes at this time of year. But most of all, I was jealous of all the discoveries that lay ahead of her within her own time.

It was late at night when I finally began to think about suffering. The lights were going out and I was sitting in my favorite spot in the flat looking at the river Thames go by. On the staircase I thought “nobody likes to suffer.” Earlier that week there had been flashing lights and sirens on the bridge that crosses an area of our local quay. The road was blocked off for hours, and we had to go the long way around the neighborhood in order to visit our local supermarket and shopping centre. After it was finally cleared away, four bouquets of flowers had been tied to posts of the barricade which prevents people from falling into the river. An eleven year old boy had jumped in on a hot summers day and on the way down, hit his head against the wall causing him to lose consciousness. It took two hours for emergency crew to find his body.

A friend of mine, when he reported this to me, kept saying over and over “We told those kids not to play there; not to jump in.” I could see the frustration that comes with age and understanding dangers that children remain ignorant to or choose to ignore. I don’t think he would be as upset if a seventeen year old had done the same thing, but an eleven year old. My friend was visibly frustrated.

If you live long enough, you will be miserable. It doesn’t matter how much money you have or how protected your life is. It’s a fact of the human condition; you will suffer. And you will be tested in how much you are determined that life is worth living. The alternative is that you die young, as the case of our neighbor boy. In that case you inevitably make a bunch of other people miserable and such is the depressing side of the circle of life. We love; we grow attached to people, things, ideas, places, and they are inevitably taken away and we are given the choice to clutch on thereby suffocating ourselves and the people around or let go thereby accepting the pain, accepting change and forcing ourselves to never have any stability at all.

A book I was reading not too long ago explained that a sociologist interviewed the victims who’d survived the Jewish concentration camps of the second World War to ask what effect the experience had on their faith. The findings were shocking:

“During the 1970’s, a man named Reeve Robert Brenner surveyed 1000 survivors of the Holocaust, enquiring especially about their religious faith.

How had the experience of the Holocaust effected their beliefs about God? Somewhat astonishingly almost half claimed that the Holocaust had no effect on their beliefs about God. But the other half told a different story. Of the total number surveyed, 11 percent said they had rejected all belief in the existence of God as a direct result of their experience. After the war, they never regained faith. Analyzing their detailed responses, Brenner noted that their professed atheism seemed less a matter of theological belief and more of an emotional reaction, an expression of deep hurt and anger against God for abandoning them” (From: Where is God When it Hurts by Phillip Yancey)

Suffering in any form forces us to reevaluate our ideas about the bedrock of what we base our life on. The eleven percent of people who became atheists as a result of their experience, it means taking a good long hard look at one’s own religion, turning around, and walking away. For others it means undergoing that same examination of one’s beliefs and deciding if they are worth keeping, need to be re-edited, or need to be thrown out entirely. Assuming that there is a God out there, many of us, think that it must be pretty easy being in control of the entire universe. One can look at the Old Testament as well as the Torah and characters such as Moses and Abraham who believed in an absolute God with an enormous personality. As individuals who said to their creator, “Sure it’s easy being up there, why don’t you come down here for a bit and try it out huh?”

As humans, when we think about God, we are torn between two dichotomies. The first is we want Him to suffer. We want him to know how difficult life is if He is out there, and do everything He can to improve it. But the irony of it is, if there is a God. Do we have any room in our human ideology for a God that willingly sacrifices and goes through agony? We can’t stand the idea of a God who lives above us oblivious to the concept of human pain and suffering, and yet the idea that an all powerful being that would willingly submit himself to such agony and pain completely out of love is outside our concept of what God is. We have no classification for a God who feels pain by choice. Perhaps it’s a contradiction of terms, someone who is almighty and chooses the difficult way.

I think about the family of the little boy who jumped into the water two weeks ago, how much suffering they must be going through now. The truth is not only do I hate it; I get every bit as angry as my friend. A child didn’t live long enough to suffer, and ironically, that’s what angers us all. The fact is that his life was cut short on a whim. Now his family is left picking up the pieces, asking the questions which inevitably come from suffering and searching for answers.

In this way, the child is very much like our preconception of God. We want every child to live long enough to know what suffering is and to ask questions about life himself rather than asking them in the wake of a child’s death. But ironically, like everyone else, we know that it would be much simpler if neither God, nor the child, nor anyone else had to suffer in the first place.