Not alone

 Somebody asked me the other day if I ever feel lonely. I answered honestly that the times I do are rare and far between. They asked me how is that possible. I answered, let me gather my thoughts and I will answer you. This is my answer to that question.

Ever since I was a little child I have lived inside myself. Maybe that statement is true for many people, but I can only speak for myself. I remember when I was five or six, I was outside looking at the clouds and I have closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I saw in my mind a small room with a high ceiling that had a small window so high up that some light did come in and myself sitting in the middle of the room. Because I was a child and had no deeper thoughts than 'what's for lunch?' and 'ooh, a bird' and 'hmm the sky is very blue today', I didn't know what to do with that image in my mind. Still, whenever I was sad, contemplative, bent on observing everything, I found myself returning to that little room time and time again. Sometimes I would sit there for hours and just make up stories that I would tell myself, I even composed a song or two and sang them to myself in that room. I would observe the blades of grass and concluded they were swords of some secret world bent on conquering us all with their sheer numbers and perfection. I did the same with every notion under the sun and would gather every single conclusion and placed it carefully in that room and marveled over my thoughts like a dragon over his treasures. I didn't realize it then that I have unintentionally turned myself into a thought hoarder. I didn't even take notice of when the room kept getting bigger and bigger around me. Because no matter how much stuff I was hiding inside it never seemed to fill up. I didn't do all that because I was an unhappy child or that I didn't have children to play with or because I wasn't loved. In fact quite the contrary was true. When I was seven my room went through the first earthquake and I have lost most of my carefully gathered notions in that disaster. I mourned their loss for a very long time. My room turned into a little prison of sorts instead of a safe place where I could store precious things. I was going inside it only when I wished to punish myself. It had become unbeknownst to me a place where I would go to scream my anger and in time it got so ugly and awful that I was scared to close my eyes lest I end up in that room. I don't remember clearly how old I was the first time things have changed, but I couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen. I went to Church with my grandmother, something which I have done forever. Due to the fact it was a small Church in the village, there was no Sunday school, so I have always attended the regular service. I knew that they talked about God, that they prayed, sometimes yelled for no good reason from the pulpit and sometimes my grandmother cried during the yelling, a fact I very much resented. I hated Church on that reason alone. But my point is I knew what the whole thing was about. Still, this day I went with my grandmother and as usual I sat next to her and the sermon began. I prepared myself to float away with my thoughts until it was time to go, when a set of keys landed in my lap. It hurt! I looked up and the preacher said, 'Good! Now I have your attention! See if you can keep up.' And he even dared to smile while he said it in front of everybody. Oh, I was burning with shame and anger. I mean I was ready to do battle angry. He continued preaching like nothing happened. And he talked about a Kingdom and its King, whom loved it so much that He never got tired of building and rebuilding it even from the ashes. I heard that my entire life, but that was the first time I listened. I hated that preacher so much for throwing his keys at me, but I heard every word he said. While we were walking home from Church, I went into my small room with all the dread in the world and miracle of miracles I could see better inside so I couldn't exactly miss the fact that there was now someone else in there as well. He wasn't saying anything and I was mute. I pretended He wasn't there and He didn't seem to mind my silence. We learned to live together. But whenever I was storing something else in there He was touching everything. My first words to Him were, 'stop touching my stuff!' He smiled like I have amused Him. I didn't like that at all. I knew without Him saying a word that He had the right to touch and even alter my every thought. We didn't talk, really talk, until I was nineteen. I mean there was a certain silent communication going on, but not enough to acknowledge that He was there in fact for me. The day I gave in I was so tired. I have built and rebuilt my dingy little room so much and with so little success that I have finally decided that maybe I should give it to Him. Maybe, just maybe, He'll be able to build walls that won't collapse every time there's an earthquake and I won't lose all my carefully crafted or bought notions. Just like I knew, He was delighted by the offer. Like I didn't know, He proceeded to lay dynamite around the whole edifice and blow it to pieces, walls, possessions and all. I turned towards Him mouth hanging open and after days of shock I asked Him, why on earth was He bent on destroying me when I was expecting love and care. What I didn't know, because my anger was blinding me, was that yes, there was no room anymore. But there was an entire world outside it. I mean it did look like a Martian landscape, but it had a sky and birds and water. He took me by the hand and showed me how to start working that land and make it less arid. He taught me how to plant things and how to have patience to see them grow. He taught me how to build irrigation canals and how to store the rain. He taught me in seasons of plenty to store for the seasons of drought. I am busy working my garden every day. The trees need constant pruning. The grass needs cutting. The crops in season need harvesting. But I don't work alone. I've got help. He's always there working right besides me. So I don't feel lonely. That's my point with this extremely long article. I am not lonely. I am content.

By Cristina Pop