On Easter Sunday, I went to church for the first time in years. More importantly, I went of my own accord, which was quite unusual. Now, over the years, I’ve called myself part of many different religions or creeds. I started out Catholic and went through animism, agnosticism, Unity, Wicca, and a vast array of in-betweens. These days, if someone asks me what religion I am, I just tell them, “Vaguely Christian with a huge helping of spirituality and some Mexican Catholic cultural practices on the side.” So UU was a perfect fit for me.
But this isn’t a blog post about Easter.
Last Sunday, I went back to UU. I almost didn’t, but I happened (by some miracle) to wake up in time for the 11:30 service, so I figured it couldn’t hurt. What completely broadsided me was that the sermon this time was built around Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”.
Oh.
God.
Why.
I sat there, attempting valiantly to control my tears, as wave after wave of music poured over me. It was something unlike anything I’d experienced before, because one of the main points of the talk was that life is hard. It is. “Some days,” I remember the pastor saying, “you just want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, stay very still, and hope the day doesn’t notice you.” I was like, “Oh, yes, totally. I have totally been there for days and weeks at a time.”
But this isn’t a blog post about how pain is beautiful or some crap like that.
Sunday night, and Monday morning, several events occurred in rapid succession. If I had to use figurative language to describe how they felt, I would say that a giant gust of freezing cold wind poured over me while I slept and neatly, without a fuss, removed my heart. I felt like such a poser. Here I had been spending so much time and money learning about philosophy and poetry and chemistry and biology, and then real life came along and rendered everything completely useless. I had no resources to deal with heartbreak, and I felt stupid, because I’m 20, for God’s sake, and I’m not supposed to be breaking my heart anymore.
This is a post about living, I think. About living and college and growing up.
At UU, we talked about finding your hallelujah, or your reason for living. (Yes, I know it doesn’t really mean that, but bear with me.) Turns out your reason for living changes over time. If you asked a five-year-old, “What’s the meaning of life?” you would get a different answer than if you asked a 13-year-old, or a 20-year-old, or a 50-year-old.
Sometimes, you can’t find your reason for living. Sometimes life just comes along and kicks you in the butt. Hard. Sometimes you lose your job, or your spouse files for divorce, or you find out you have a serious illness, or you find a gray hair. And during these times – don’t you hate this – some idiot comes along and tells you that everything will be okay. Tells you to look on the bright side. And you’re just like, “What bright side? I’m alone/old/ugly/sad/dying, and you’re telling me that ‘at least things can’t get worse’?”
Over the past few days, I’ve come to understand myself a lot more, and to realize what I’m capable of. I wish I could tell you that I understand life better, or why God/fate/the universe chooses to make bad things happen, but I don’t.
Here’s what I do know:
- Life is hard, and anyone who tells you differently is trying to sell you something.
- Things might not get better, but your response to things will.
- Music is a form of expression that transcends cultures, languages, and species. You can play music to someone in a coma and they will hear it. You can play music to a baby in the womb and they will hear it. You can listen to music and it will explain things better than any amount of words ever could.
After the past few days, I have found a new level of faith. Not faith in God, but faith in myself.
Baby, I’ve been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. May you find peace.