In the middle of everything, there’s this deep, dark, depressing hole. It’s a chasm, really, and when you fall in, sometimes there’s no climbing out. When we call it anything at all, we often call it death, brokenness, or despair. I like to call it the abyss, or, more familiarly, the hole or the pit.
A lot of us like to believe the hole is at the end of everything, not in the middle; but there it is in the middle, right in front of us. We walk around it, gaze into it, slip into it, and watch others fall into it all the time. We don’t like to think about it. It’s impolite to even acknowledge its existence.
We live at the edge of this hole; some, dancing at its rim; others, peering carefully in; most, with their back to it, as if it’s not there. We often find ourselves reeling, dizzy at the edge. We cling to something to prevent falling. Clinging to something enables us to live at the edge of the abyss more comfortably. We think, if we start to slip, we can haul ourselves out. Unfortunately, anything we cling to starts to fall into the hole, too, taking us down, with it. Everything must fall in the hole, eventually.
There are nine bushes that grow at the edge of this hole. Nine things to grab if you feel you’re about to fall. Nine supports that offer the illusion of security as long as they hold. Nine kinds of madness when they begin to give way. Continue reading →