Rabbit-Hole
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.
What would you do dear reader if you'd been down Alice's rabbit hole and lived to tell the tale? Would that world be something you longed for? Or avoided after nearly losing your head?
I found such a place. Almost mythic... but the world there is— it is a wonderful and warm space, inspired and loving. Filled with characters who speak in riddles and dance when it rains. And at the heart of it, her. The one I lost, or left, or let go.
It’s a place I never should have seen. I never should have been. I was a fish on land. A gentile in the holy.
And yet, sometimes I wake with the scent of her hair still drifting in my memory, like smoke from a fire I didn't mean to light but never wanted to extinguish.
Sometimes. Who am I kidding?
I know I shouldn't go back.
The rabbit hole is behind me. Logic, consequence, time, wisdom—they say, keep walking.
But my heart still glances over its shoulder.
Because some wonderlands feel like they are worth losing your head for.
Wisdom whispers to me not to look back. That it’s dangerous. That it’ll freeze you in place. Lot’s wife did not listen to that tutor and learned the lesson hard and fast. One glance, and: undone. Oh, wisdom, where are you my old friend.
Why did she stop... what had such a hold on her heart that she gave up everything for want? For desire? Can you be considered disobedient if you are out of control? Maybe she was just in love. With the life she left, the warmth of a home—even a flawed one. A comfort that made her feel whole and her fear of what lay ahead was just more than she could bear. Maybe she turned because a heart like hers couldn’t help it.
Maybe I am her.
Maybe I’m already halfway to salt.
But maybe—just maybe—some stories don’t end in fire or salt or exile.
Maybe some rabbit holes don’t lead to ruin, but return.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
There is a sign I can now make out:
“This way to madness.”
“We’re all mad here.”
I have felt my sanity slip away. My confidence and certitude about life. I always called it faith. The assured expectation of things hoped for though not beheld. No amount of doing what is right, of what is asked, of what is needed kept me from the precipice of failure. So I question if continuing to hold to the ledge of the life I know will bear the fruit of peace— or will it continue to cost me my friends and respect.
Is feeling loved the temporary enjoyment of sin?
If I could have a conversation with Jesus, would he weep with me?
Or just take out his sword and conclude the inevitable?
I fear that time in life when I could afford to be Alice has passed. I spent my foolish years in steadfast practice of right and good. I am quite proud of that. But now must soldier on as a man. Old age is no time to start sowing oats, but rather finding satisfaction in fulfilling my obligation, not my desires.
I have only my loyalty to offer as a gift. However faltering and tarnished that may be. My small gift at the altar. I may need the atoning power of a bull, but one can only give what one has. And the blood of a perfect one is enough in any case.
Being loved and feeling loved. Not two sides of the same coin. Maybe the answer isn't wanting to tumble down after Alice, but appreciating the garden here along the bank and basking in the warm spring sun. Focusing on what's important. Remembering what I was promised.
And believing.
Believing.
Believing that I can find happiness again.
I may have lost the golden beam of some of those denizens down the hole... but it doesn't mean I'll never feel whole again. Maybe it's a memory problem—forgetting too easily what is best in life and what my commitments are.
My real fear is that I didn't plan to run the race this long. I should quit asking myself questions I know the answer to and instead figure out how to refill my tank.
So, here I am: desperately seeking joy, zeal, and endurance.
I don’t know if I’ll ever tumble again. Beware he who is standing and all. But I do know this: I have seen Wonderland. I have loved within it.
And that love—real or imagined, holy or mad—left its fingerprints on my soul.
Maybe that’s what rabbit holes do.
They leave us—changed.
#memoir #confession #100DaysToOffload #Writing #osxs
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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