Love and Trembling

I read an article in the news about research on shame and on love as its counterpart, and it touched deep stirrings; I live with a blanket of calm, a pragmatic approach to the daily life.  Still, I ended up staring into the morning air, feeling the sharp knives cutting into the comfort zone, revealing a world of hidden emotion. I started breathing deeply and heavily – like I do when anxiety wants to tie me down. And all I could think was: I do not exist.

            It was a good thing I was all by myself; no one could really understand, and I could not explain. Naturally, I cried a bit. It felt good, but all through church I stared at the strange revelation in my soul. I felt a strong urge to touch or be touched, ever so gently, to be confirmed in my existence. I received the bread and wine. There was even a small human touch. And I could kneel at the altar. Thanks.

What is this? I have had some time to ponder, a night to sleep on it. Not much time. Perhaps will my understanding deepen – but a few weeks ago I remembered the time I died. It is many years ago, and I was walking alone on a dirt road on the English moors, near Capernwray in the Lake District. A slight rain was reflecting my mood, as I let myself sink in to melancholy. It was a natural part of my mental make up, a Nordic trait. I didn’t want to pray, but I mulled over the thoughts in my mind – and I expressed my wish: I want to die.  Staring defiantly through a fog of tears and into the rainy meadows, I declared out loud: God! I want is to die! I stared into a seemingly endless pit of darkness. And there was a reply: “Yes.”

It was not the answer I expected. It startled me.

“Yes, you may die.”

            I need to look into my old journals to see in what manner I resigned, but this I clearly remember: I resigned, and as I let the tears flow and the tensions leaving my body, I sensed the strong and mighty hand of God underneath me. The endless pit was out of sight. I died that day; a sort of ‘die to self’, I suppose. But the change was real and lasting. I never stared into the darkness of melancholy again. I have often sensed the palm of God holding me.

So, what scared me on Sunday morning? Was it a relic from the past? Was it the dead relic, which in truth does no longer exist? Or did I look into an aspect of unlived life, a depth of my own person and personality which is covered?

            It is so easy to be rational and pragmatic and say it has limited value to try and fish in murky waters. Maybe was my paradoxical statement: ”I do not exist” a subconscious response to reading Kierkegaard’s “Frygt og Beven” (“Fear and Trembling”). Maybe it was a subconscious denial; for as I also noticed: as someone who does not exist, I cannot be held accountable.  So, in my non-existence, I said: I love. And that was ok.