I'm often in awe of the beauty of this world. My heart is full, and I'm in it, presently, in the moment. My eyes go blurry with tears and I think of how lucky I am to be here now, a speck of dust, a collection of atoms floating in infinite possibility.
These are my good moments. In them, I'm able to be fully immersed—one day at a time. The magnificence is bright, but I'm wearing the lenses that allow me to be a witness. I see it, and recognize that I am not in control. I am calm, and the pale blue dot is accepting of my solemnity.
In it—like wholly in it—I am powerless, yet powerful as ever. I am replete with wonder and grace. I am wayward in spirit, I am free. I am mighty. I am capable and proud of who I am.
And then there's a shift. Jarringly and swiftly I crumble.
My lens through which I am witness has shattered, and the world, it's brightness, forces me to turn away, withdraw. I look down at my feet, and draw inward—I am alone here.
I am overwhelmed, and I can't see. I look around and I don't recognize anything anymore. I yearn to be a present participant in this wondrous absurdity, but I've lost my tether.
I flail, reaching out, attempting to hold onto something, but I'm faced with a palpable, eerie, deafening silence.
I am one.
I am alone.
I am terrified.
I am a burden.
And I just want to cease; I have nothing to live for.
These are my struggle moments, the darkness betwixt the brightness, the valley floor in my emotional ebbs and flows. It's only time until I can climb out of that valley and onto the next peak from which I can gain perspective, and learn all over again that I am here now—loved, valid, resilient.
On that peak, I can see again—a remarkable pale blue dot, in which I am a necessary collection of atoms—for myself, for my wife, for my dog, for my friends, for us vacillating humans in flourish and struggle.
On that peak, I am not alone.