The Journey For Us

People who are constantly optimistic make me suspicious. Do they not own a television? Do they print money in their basement and get away with it? Do they just not want to admit the dark nights of the soul when they’re curled up under the stairs washing down M&Ms with vodka?

I’m not an optimistic person by nature, and after several years of not just waiting for our ship to come in, but of standing on the dock pulling on the mooring ropes of the Titanic, I wonder how much of the effort has amounted to cursing the ocean.

For as much as I make a conscious effort to learn something or to find one positive image or idea in each day, sometimes they’re just not there. My more religious friends counsel patience and faith. I like to tell them about how Martin Luther wrote theology.

Sitting on the can.

No, I’m not making that up. It was his favorite place to write his sermons and essays, and he was known, in more fervent (or blocked) moments, to hurl . . . available material . . . at the devil, whom he believed visited him frequently in the john.

It’s historically disconcerting to ponder the fact that a good dose of Metamucil could have replaced the Reformation with a completely different kind of movement.

My point, however, is that Luther wasn’t the sort to just placidly take what heaven or hell was throwing his way. He threw . . . stuff . . . back.

I often have the urge to hurl back in sheer, unadulterated, fed-up frustration and anger. At least Luther had images tangible to his own belief structure to serve as targets. I, like most people, deal with more inchoate, shifting demons.

My anger does, however, serve as my barometer. At least if I can still work up a head of steam, I care. I’m engaged. It’s the days when I can’t even get hacked off that give me pause to worry.

I’d like to be optimistic. I’d like to be patient and to have consistent faith, but apparently I was not designed that way.