Fear of Darkness: Part Three

This essay follows Fear of Darkness: Part One and Fear of Darkness, Part Two

So, to recap: stuck in a broken-down truck beside a rural highway, miles from help, with no cell signal and no way to contact humanity, I had two realizations. First, darkness and isolation dismantle the distractions of my senses, forcing me to confront truths I’ve long known but couldn’t process. Second, human perceptions of time are illusory; “now” only exists later, when I think about it. Only what has happened, and what could happen, really exist.

Trapped and isolated, forced to sit still and listen, these first two realizations led to my third and final realization of the night: that only action really matters. We make excuses for the past, and promises for the future, because fundamentally, we humans know what only darkness made me realize, that “now” doesn’t exist, and therefore doesn’t matter. Instead, we focus on what we did, what we could’ve done, and what we hope to do going forward.

This realization puts me at odds with two of humanity’s greatest religious traditions. Christianity teaches that we have an intimate relationship with transcendence, that our ability to commune with God defines our souls, and the ultimate disposition of our undying essence. Whether that means the catechistic salvation of Catholic tradition, or the Reformation’s promise of “salvation by grace through faith,” we are saved by transcending ourselves, not by doing anything.

Simultaneously, Buddhism teaches that living outside the moment creates suffering. Chaining ourselves to the past reminds us of our limitations, and keeps us anchored, unable to exist currently; while casting our hopes onto the future keeps us striving after goals which cannot literally exist, because the future never wholly arrives. Though different Buddhist schools disagree on how to achieve their goals, they agree: only the present really, meaningfully exists.

I wandered into my personal wilderness, like Jesus seeking temptations at Lent or Siddharta renouncing his palace; yet my conclusions differ wildly from theirs. Yet I don’t believe I’ve contravened their realizations, either. Because Jesus offers salvation, while Buddha offers Nirvana, and I offer neither. Indeed, I offer nothing, because I don’t believe I’ve uncovered truths that apply to anybody but myself. And that’s my biggest reward for a dark, tumultuous evening.

Huge swaths of my life have been defined entirely by the desire to avoid causing offense. Sometimes I’ve wondered why this is. Was it my parents, encouraging me to pursue life goals consistent with earning a living rather than accomplishing personal fulfillment; teachers who harped on every shortcoming in my work, making me so afraid to screw up that I’m left paralyzed; my rootless youth, needing to reinvent myself every two or three years? Who knows?

Whatever the reason, the future became a source of terror, the past a reservoir of regret. My entire present has been an effort to avoid hurting anybody’s feelings or making anybody think poorly of me; as a result, I’ve remained perpetually unfulfilled. Ironically, in attempting to keep people thinking well of me, I’ve avoided doing anything that would’ve built deeper human connections, like getting married or putting down roots. I’ve become a ghost.

Rather than avoiding offense, I need to act boldly, acknowledging that some outcomes remain beyond my control. Yes, I will inevitably do something to hurt or pique others. Because I’m fundamentally human, and mistakes simply happen. That’s what it means when the present only exists retrospectively: I cannot know the effects my actions have upon others. But look what avoiding those effects has accomplished. That isn’t the second-best choice.

Instead, I must simply do something, anything. And, if I cause pain or moral injury to another, I must seek forgiveness and learn from my mistakes. I must make myself a better person, and make the world around me better for my having been present; and if, in doing so, I hurt others, I must seek atonement with the same boldness with which I’ve acted. I must own my future, and in doing so, I must own my past.

If my nighttime lesson is true, the present exists only for me; future and past exist for everyone together. This hasn’t been an easy lesson to internalize. In the days since receiving this personal truth, I’ve frequently wanted to retreat into the comfy habits which existed before that night. I have to consciously remind myself to keep acting toward the future. But I believe, if I keep practicing, my nighttime truth-visit will make me, and everyone around me, better for the experience.

And that, friends, is kind of scary.