After The Fall

While an opinion writer for Chicago's SouthtownStar, I existed in a continuous state of analysis. Social analysis, political analysis. I was always asking what the news meant. It seemed that the same dysfunctions that appeared in close human relationships were always playing out on a grand social scale. America in 2005 seemed like the epic dysfunctional family, complete with bickering, role-casting, and family-style estrangement before we named it cancel culture.

Why did this or that thing bother me, or excite me, I would ask. What was its impact on people? I did this instinctively, or maybe habitually, because by the mid-2000's I had been keeping journals for nearly 20 years. I had developed the habit of existential inquiry; I had wondered what it meant that I spent a block of my childhood in a missionary training school, that my dad was a preacher and my mom was always tired. Whom exactly did either parental unit think was looking out for my brother and me as we explored our surroundings, far beyond the playground? I recall finding the giant furnace room once and touching one of the boilers to see how hot it was. (It was hot, and rusty.)

And: How did I think taking a bird's nest was OK? I loved birds. Yes, kids do dumb things, kids are not yet formed, they are impulsive. Most get injured in the course of childhood. Not all fall from trees and nearly die. How did The Fall happen? How was it that two Steves were my saviors that day? Why this special brand of weirdness?

This is contemplation. In a time when ultimate meaning feels elusive, I propose that these kinds of questions are not pointless – even if answers are nebulous and unprovable, foggy like the existence of gods or mystical experiences. I propose that asking reflective questions about the ordinary and not-so-ordinary circumstances of our lives is a habit worth forming. Why? It could be that the whole of our life is a mystical experience and we are missing most of the show.