Surviving the Storm

Surviving the Storm:

And why that's just not good enough

The headlines these days are getting vicious. For a few months now, I've been sitting back to follow the story of the Sweat Lodge issue for a few months now, not really sure what I think of it. The hell bent pursuit of a better life, taken at the hands of a, well meaning, snake in the grass. Knowledge should never be forbidden, but always taken with a grain of responsibility. What is known can not be unknown, and the damage done can only be undone if it's not permanent. Creature comforts, after all, won't stave off the rabid gnawing of painful knowledge and will absolutely do nothing to stave off the pale horse Death tends to ride upon. Sitting down to think about it all, there was only one rational question: Why are we desperate to only survive the storm, that we push ourselves so far beyond the limits of what we can handle???

 

It's the people who look at it as a way of life that often get lost; too freaked out on altered states, high on the adrenaline fumes of stress and long hours. It's that kind of mental state that can lead to blind desperation, spinning the wheel absently and praying there's a shore out there somewhere. I can respect the principle of that kind of perseverance, but the application? It's that kind of thing that makes bare knuckle boxing with a rabid kangaroo seem almost sensible. It's looking for the illumination outside the walls, outside of who we are, of trying to fill self made holes with dirt from a foreign land. It's surviving the storm in pieces, and calling survival good enough.

A lot of people these days have deserted themselves on islands of their own making. They've built high and impenetrable walls, starved themselves of meat and swilling enough coconut milk to liquify their insides in a constant stream of filth and madness. They've become desperate, savage, raving fools -- bloodthirsty for meat and the sense of touch, unable to decide which it is they want more. They're shipwreck victims, the storm has passed them over, but the trauma of living in it has become too much. If you listen, real close, on a quiet night, you can hear them howling across the sea in a mad chorus of senseless babble. It's the kind of sound that sends shivers up your spine and puts a real fear of the sea into you.

It's these people who snap when the do find sand under their feet. Once well meaning, upstanding, member of society, these PTA board members now look like hunched over cannibals, rabid and frothing at the mouth. They've grown so out of touch with their fellows, so complacent to survive in the storm, that they've been weathered, degraded, and just plain rotten. The fruits of their labor have all spoiled and they've gotten drunk on fermented berries. They're wild, they're dangerous, they're unpredictable and, even if all these things make them exciting, they should be regarded with an air of caution and given some semblance of berth. 

 

It's good, from time to time, to chase that edge of existence, to find the high and narrow places that are out there, to know just how far you're willing to go. It's good to live to live, to hold nothing back for adventure, and to give your last at a chance for everything you've ever wanted. What makes no sense to me is that this attitude seems to be, as of late, all about simply surviving the firestorm of teeth and claws.  It no longer seems to be about moving through the hardships and wet roads. It seems to simply be about staying in them. This kind of fortitude training has it's place -- it's good to know just how hard and real it can get before you have to back out -- but it becomes a simple matter of attrition. No one can survive the waves forever, there's too many brutal things in the sea.

It's not good enough to simply survive the storm, not now, not ever. It takes too much gas, and there are too many things to go and do. When the storm hits and the seas rise to life like some old, vengeful, god, I find it's often best to put the throttle all the way forward, and rush headlong. Sailing straight through, cursing and swearing at anyone or anything that will try and stop you, waving your flag high and brandishing your sword were the same kind of ferocity -- it's the most efficient means of seeing the following dawn. The storm is a trial, it's not a way of life.

The sun will always rise on a tomorrow, and the storm will always pass -- as long as you don't follow it. There's nothing wrong with treading water, or seeking shelter on a deserted island if it gets to raw for you. The harm only comes in staying there, in trying to survive, rather than push through it. The rains will fall, the wind will make it sting, thunder will roar, lightening will crash. You can't avoid these things, Mother Nature won't let you. Trying to avoid them? Senseless. Trying to outrun them? Senseless. They'll find you, someday. You can count on it. Nothing, an I mean nothing, makes as little sense as sitting there, following the storm where ever it goes though.

Pick a direction, pick it randomly, and simply go. Take someone by the hand if you're lucky; grab yourself by the boot laces if you're not. Put your foot, your hand, whatever, on the gas and move. Kick your feet, swim like you've got a shark chasing you, but keep moving. To where or what end? To live, to life, to the pursuit of all things warm -- to better days filled with smiles, laughter. To hot meat, to strong drink, to sitting around the fire telling tales like the Vikings. To celebrate all the things you've seen, all the things you've done, and to do all the things you want to do.

Surviving is good, but it should never, ever, be good enough.