Through a Glass, Darkly
Sometimes we have a goal in mind, seen now only “as through a glass, darkly,” with no real notion of how to close the gap between our vision and its realization. The gap chases us through our days, visits us in our nights, laces “time off” with guilt and sprinkles distraction about like dust. "When are you going to build me a bridge?" it asks insistently, urgently. "I am yawning and empty and your vision is waiting."
"Well," I say to the Gap, "it's all well and good to build bridges through familiar terrain to known destinations." But sometimes the gap hounds us, while the vision eludes us, and suddenly we find ourselves building a bridge of straw when stone would be more appropriate, for example; or burning the midnight oil to build a bridge to nowhere.
Some visions - naturally only the best ones; of course only the most scintillating ones - are like distant galaxies that exist only in the periphery of our perception, relentlessly asking us turn our head to look, but then coyly disappearing as soon as we do. Such has been my life for these last many months. I oscillate between feeling beguiled, bewildered and betrayed by my Vision, who teases and tickles and "halooooos" across the chasm, but will not let me get a good look at it, and the Gap, who only nags and pesters me without ever offering any advice.
Two days ago, I woke up to Dad saying in my ear “there is no try, only do." Yesterday I woke up to a vision of him behind my eyelids giving me a thumbs up. And today - day 3 - he was there again, saying, “you will get there. This is just a place to start.”
So I got up and straightened some things at my desk and this picture (above) - a favorite - fell out to the floor, and suddenly it is rife with new meaning. We have a vision “as through a glass, darkly" of my father, emerging from the murky gloom. Jacques Cousteau had captured Dad's imagination early on - seekers and explorers always recognize each other. But as Dad was never able to afford the equipment, here he is SCUBA diving with an aqualung he built himself, from scratch, in 1957. Perhaps just as remarkably, he is taking underwater pictures of himself doing it, before the invention of underwater cameras.
Dad never minded the gap; he thrived on the gap - whatever and wherever it was - bending the world to his vision. His message to me today, then - and mine to you - seems to be this: do not mind the gap. The gap doesn’t spoil the fun, it is the fun. Don’t have an aqualung? Build one. There is no try. Only do.
My goal is to write a book about this remarkable man. What is yours? What is your heart’s burning desire? And how are you going to go about making it yours?
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