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Being Myself
by Joelle Chase
 There
have been times in my life, in the midst of hopeless, dark
depression, when I wished I could be a thing, bereft of
the capacity to think or feel. A nonentity. Like a leaf
floating on a stream or a rock—silent and still. Today
the desire comes not from a longing for life to cease but
from a hunger to be myself. True. At ease. Natural. I walk
through the tall grasses in Makoshika State Park near my
apartment. Reaching out to finger their slender stems, I
will myself to be as graceful in the breeze as they. Bending,
whispering a secret authenticity and assuredness of ontology.
They know the steps to the wind’s dance without being
told, without practice. The waves roll in perfect cadence.
May my life be as effortless? Let it be so, Lord….
Reaching the top of the hill, I look across acres of pale
crests and gullies—coulees, they call them here. Gumbo,
a fragile topsoil turned slick in rain, ranges from dark
gray to chalky white. The setting sun washes the bland scene
in luminescent red. Here and there a cottontail rabbit scampers
or sniffs. The ever present wind carries scents of sagebrush.
Even though they are called badlands, named for the troublesome
spirits Native Americans thought inhabited the strange bumps
on the plains, these hills are good for me. A reminder of
reality. There they stand. Simply who they are. Without
trying or pretending.
 And
yet it is not easy. Jesus never said it would be. Birthing
life comes only after death to false self. As Jesus shared
in humanity’s collective suffering, becoming one with
us in every sense of the word, so I must participate in
His suffering—the Paschal mystery. These months in
Eastern Montana badlands have been dark in spite of the
luxurious sunshine. I fumble after myself and God, trying
to grab hold of something true. Thomas Merton’s prayer,
confessing how little we know of who we are and the way
to go, has been my breath. When moments of clarity come,
and I sense a rightness in who I am, the stark landscape
mirrors my aloneness and the misunderstanding of the people
in this place. Then the withness of God in Jesus comes close
as I taste His experience of rejection and isolation. I
miss home as the Son must have ached for where He belonged.
I sit on a bench overlooking the endless pattern of dips
and rises. I begin singing familiar Taizé songs.
“Nada te turbe; / nada te espante; / quien a Dios
tiene; / Nada le falta. / … Sólo Dios basta.”
Teresa of Avila’s words soothe. Don’t be afraid.
God is enough. The wakening stars in an expanse of deepening
blue join with harmony.
“Bless the Lord, my soul; and bless God’s
holy name. Bless the Lord, my soul, who leads me into life.”
Yes, lead me into my life, into Your life.
“In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful; in
the Lord I will rejoice. Look to God; do not be afraid.
Lift up your voices; the Lord is near…”
You are here, as close as the wind whipping my hair. You
are near, as sure as the earth will turn to the sun’s
glow tomorrow.
 My
voice sounds clear and large, filling Makoshika’s
empty cathedral. A bit of an echo comes back with a murmur,
and I feel not quite so by myself. Wistfully, I remember
my last Taizé at Still Waters before I left for Montana.
I had placed my candle with the others encircling a stone
in the sand. The ring of light rendered the beautiful community
at Still Waters that had included me so gently the last
couple years. A little ways from the many candles, still
in sand, had stood a solitary candle with a handful of heart-shaped
rocks around its base. The image comes back now, an icon
alive with meaning. Instead of a circle of flame surrounding
Love, Love enfolds my single candle. St. Jerome said, “We
are never less alone than when alone.”
Even in the dark night, when God and self and friends
seem far, far away.
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