Twilight's Whispered Whispers

There is something inherent within the heart of man, something as passionate as it is pervasive, that will forever cast the aspersions of discontent within his soul, mercilessly tormenting him with the shadows of fear, raspily whispering sweet discord into his ear. Promising the promise of transcending his turmoil, but ever reminding him of the scores of present absences in his life. The great question of our existence is not one of how we have become, for we are; nor is it one of how we shall depart, for depart we shall. No, the question is simply this: shall we regard this pervasive passion as friend, or as foe?

This passion, like most others, is a quiet thing. It is not like lust, that blind and obnoxious beast with no regard for the delicacies imbued within the finer emotions of our lives. No, this passion speaks loudest when it doesn't at all - when it makes itself known simply as a gravity, new and foreign, gently but insistently tugging upon one's countenance. Happiness seems to no longer be defaulted to, but rather seems a series of momentary diversions from a brooding state of contemplation. Most despise this state of affairs, and will expend seemingly boundless energy and resources in order to overthrow its influence. We rail against the dusky twilight of the unknown, unmindful that it harbors our whispering passion. Neglecting that while the whispers are inherently neither good nor ill, they lace the very air we breathe with their aroma, and cannot be ignored.

Our great issue with the whispers whispered by this pervasive, passionate something is most often not one of perception, but of discernment. We usually know that they are there, but they are so frequently lost in the maelstrom of our circumstances that we exhaust ourselves with the strain of attempting to gather their message. The frustration this engenders within our spirits usually fosters a sense of resignation to our present circumstance as we simply learn to tolerate the gentle insistences of these passionate whispers. As we commit the atrocity of allowing the joyful, dreaming child within us to become jaded. Realistic. Logical. Of allowing our gaze to forsake our horizons in favor of our toes or, God forbid it, our traveled path behind.

And thus we are again faced with the question of how to regard this persistent something that whispers in the shadows. There are those who regard the whispers with acrimony - but these people usually mistranslate the message they render. You see, they permit the unfounded assumption that the unease the whispers create regards their temporal circumstance. Unwilling to discipline themselves toward the end of mastering the fears that swirl within their chests, they use their hands to make seismic changes in an effort to mitigate the restlessness they feel. Those who regard the whispers with such animosity wrongly judge that their message is to abandon their beloved, or to buy things they cannot afford, or to set fire to the bridges that span some chasm or another in their lives. They judge that their unrest points to a need to change something that surrounds them.

Those who count the passion as an ally, though, those who have mastered the craft of harnessing their emotions, know that its whispers bid them change not what surrounds them, but what suffuses them. What lies within. This passion that makes us discontent with where we are wants us to change ourselves.

Every time you hear the whispers, listen carefully. Forsake the temptation of considering what they are calling you out of, and focus instead on what they can lead you into. Use their message as a stimulus for growth, not escape. Much has been made of changing the world, but I know firsthand that it's a fool's errand. Change yourself.

There is something inherent within the heart of man that insistently whispers to him from the twilight.

The whispers whisper a message of hope.

The whispers whisper a message of woe.

The whispers whisper, "Friend or foe?"

Silent Shadow

People often marvel at how quiet I am. They tell me to lighten up, or that I take myself too seriously, or that I need to talk more. My responses vary depending on who I'm talking to, but range from a grunt ("Huh, yeah") to a cutting quip ("That's just because I communicate so efficiently I only have to say ten percent of the words you do") to a rhetoric piece citing university studies and Scripture, with a couple of quotable quotes thrown in ("Researchers have shown that many talkative people are only talkative for one of two reasons: vanity or insecurity. I suffer from neither. The Bible says, 'Even a fool, when he keeps silent, is considered wise; when he closes his lips, he is considered prudent.' Mark Twain summed it up nicely: 'It is far better to remain silent and appear a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.'")

Truth be told, though, I wonder sometimes, too. I think for the past year or so, it has been a function of my job. I'm getting a bit more adept at it now, but for months I've worked on the art (which is more of a laborious chore for me) of making small talk with people. I mean, I don't have to make small talk, but people generally get a little antsy when a police officer stands there and stares at them for minutes on end, so I make a go of it.

And so, I find something to talk about. If I'm scrutinizing them, it might be about how much they've had to drink. If I'm just getting information, it might be about...well, anything I can manage, to be honest. And so for ten hours a day, four days a week, I struggle to manufacture pointless conversation to keep people somewhat relaxed. The problem doesn't lie there anymore...the problem is going home.

You see, after all of this pointless chatter, I'm done. Sometimes I feel like I'm one of those airheaded girls in the mall on her cellphone, bobbing her head side to side as she gnaws on gum and injects her stream of inane blather with random occurrences of 'like,' 'totally,' and 'ohmigod':

"I was, like, down at the gas station yesterday *chew chew*, and, like, ohmigod, this guy totally butted in front of me in line! *chew* And I was like, 'Uh, like, excuse me!' And then the guy made some, like, lame excuse about his wife being in labor, or something stupid like that, and totally, like, ohmigod, blew me off!"

Because there are some things I say so often that I just go into macro mode. I initiate the sequence and words just start spilling out. There's the shoplifter sequence:

"Okay, I need to get your side of the story, but before I do that, I need to read your rights to you. This doesn't mean you're under arrest right now, I just need to advise you of your rights when you're talking to me, so listen carefully..."

The aw-shucks-gotta-give-you-a-ticket sequence:

"Okay sir/ma'am, there's your paperwork back; unfortunately, I am going to have to cite you for _________. There's more information on this envelope. You also ___________, but I'm just going to give you a warning on that this evening. I do need some information from you..."

And the accident sequence:

"Okay, here's your license and insurance back. This is the case number I'll be writing the accident report under; it'll be available in three to five days on the city's website, listed here at the bottom of the slip. If you go there, you'll see a pane on the left with an option to view accident reports...just click on that, enter your report number, and you'll be able to see a full copy of the accident report - everything I know will be on that report. Basically, though, if you just give this report number to your insurance agent, they can take care of everything behind the scenes...it's pretty hands off for you. Do you have any questions for me?"

So when I go home, not only do I not want to talk, I don't even want to listen. All night long I listen, to excuses through drivers' windows, to whiny teenagers in loss prevention offices, to a constant stream of radio traffic. I just want a nice, sensory free environment, where I'm free to listen to ambient noises like distant trains and computer fans and the slight whistle my nostrils make when I breathe.

Unfortunately, this is exactly the opposite of what Kimberly wants. While I'm at work gathering reasons why I do not want to talk or listen, she is at school gathering reasons to speak and be heard. She gathers observations and wants to share them with me; I gather observations and wish I didn't even know them. So, as you can imagine, more often that not this dynamic makes for a delicious little conversational impasse.

Beyond the job, though, I've just got a threshold thing. If I say something, more often than not I've already said it two or three times in my head, carefully parsing exactly what words I want to use. This is why I'm awful at comebacks - I always craft an impossibly witty response, but it's invariably about ninety seconds after you said your piece, by which time the moment has almost always passed. Everything's got to be a magnum opus with me.

Maybe deep down, though, it's just a defensive thing. Words are always clues - they're insights into someone's makeup, no matter how seemingly insignificant. The words I use and the way I say them give you information about how I tick. I guess in some microscopic way, that gives you power over me, and I resent it. I also know that you can't unspeak a word. There are a lot I wish I could wring out of the air. The written word is inherently destructible - paper is flammable and bytes are corruptible. If I decide I don't want you to see the very words you're reading in a week's time, you won't, and I can deny they ever existed. And while it's true that nothing published to the Internet is ever truly deleted, I can definitely make retrieval beyond your means.

So why do I talk so little? Probably because most people talk so much. I prefer to think. Few people think too much. It gives you a calm sense of focus. If everyone in a situation is talking, the cacophony is logic-blinding. If everyone is thinking, things begin to sharpen in resolution. I am out talking to people a great deal, but between dealings I have a respite in my patrol car. Even in stressful situations, I can still function because nobody is breathing demands in my ear. (This is probably why I so often tanked so hard in Field Training.)

I simply begin to assimilate data. 'I should turn my lights and sirens on. Check for traffic. I am going 130 miles per hour. The ice cream shop is open. The suspension is beginning to float. I wonder what would happen if I hit a raccoon at this speed. Check for traffic. A blowout would be really unfortunate here. That car has one headlight dimmer than the other. Hit the airhorn at the intersection. Check for traffic. Why does this person think they should stop right in front of me when I'm running code? There are three officers on scene now. Primrose turns into Westview west of Campbell. License plate begins with ADZ. Check for traffic.'

Struggle that it is, though, I still need to work on it. Kimberly deserves an ear and a shoulder, and my friends deserve more than silent ruminating and nods in passing. Silence is ultimately the cloak that veils everything about me except what I want you to see - the identity that I have so very carefully crafted. It's an extremely heavy garment at times, but it's comfortable, and it's what I've always worn.

Marvel if you like. But no matter how much you talk, you're wearing one, too.

Inoculating Against Reality

As a police officer, you're trained to look for patterns in behavior. This is often difficult, but not last night. The first four calls I went to last night involved intoxicated people. People driving into trees while intoxicated. Stumbling through parking lots while intoxicated. Lying on a sidewalk while intoxicated. Slamming into other vehicles while intoxicated. The allure of alcohol, I understand. The allure of drunkenness, I do not. Yet every night I see people defying what I consider perfectly sound logic. Logic that says, hey, if you're ignorant enough to drive drunk, at least stop driving after the first curb you run over. If you can't stand up, maybe you shouldn't attempt to walk. And if you don't have clean clothes or anywhere to stay, perhaps booze shouldn't be on your ought-to-purchase list.

For hours last night, inner Justin shook his head and rolled his eyes and tsk-tsked these people who couldn't negotiate those challenging sidewalks or use established parking lot exits or hold their bladder. As I later reflected on their choices, though, I realized something. They're not especially unique - they're just the poster children. Their means are decidedly liquid in nature, but they are only doing what we all do at some point or another: inoculating against reality.

Think about it. What are we told by marketers every day? We need to escape. We deserve to get away from it all. We need to lose ourselves in whatever they're selling. There is this perpetual idea that other is better. Somewhere else would be more exciting. Someone else would suit you better. Something else would provide more fulfillment. And we buy into it. Whether it's a vacation or a drug, a shopping trip or a porno, it seems we want to be anywhere but here.

And I'm often just as guilty as anyone else. But here is good.

In our fevered quest for other things, we tend to forget about the magic of here. We inhale meals that should be contemplated and savored. We take for granted people whom we should be learning and enjoying. We despise the quiet and the humble in favor of the flashy and the ostentatious. The blessings in favor of the fantasies. The real in favor of chasing the wind. We don't know our neighbors. We don't know our spouses.

We don't know ourselves.

I was in Colorado Springs with Kimberly a few weeks ago, and I was wanting to get some of the weather conditions for Pike's Peak. I flipped the television on, and was quickly courted by a commercial imploring me to visit beautiful...Missouri. I realized we all live in someone else's vacation destination. Live like it. Enjoy the vicissitudes of everyday life. Cherish the people around you. And quit sheltering yourself from real life.

"Don't worry about life. You're not going to survive it anyway." -- Unknown