A Deep Sigh (#2)

After a week off from blogging, I want to return with a shout. But, for now, I will have to settle for a whisper.

For some reason, I find myself reminiscing about the 1993 film, Shadowlands, a film about the British author and his relationship with an American poet. At one point in the movie, either during the poet’s battle with cancer, or soon after her death, her son visits the home of the famous writer. The camera follows the boy’s journey through the house, up a flight of stairs, and into the attic. There, in the middle of the room, apart from the clutter and shadows crowding the walls, stands a large, wooden wardrobe. The boy walks towards it, excited. Just as he reaches out with his hands, he gives a look of wonder and delight. The doors swing open, and he rushes forward. With desperate arms outstretched, the boy begins to feel for what was promised in a book he had read. In the wake of the mother’s death, the son is looking for hope.  

But what does he find?  

There, ingrained in an empty panel of wood behind the doors of an unused wardrobe in the far off corner of storyteller’s home, this poor boy, driven by the illusions conjured by the aforementioned author’s tales, discovers disappointment.          

   

The author was C.S. Lewis. The poet was Joy Davidman. And the book that inspired the boy’s desperation was The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

I had read it when I was very young. And for a long time after, I found myself approaching various closets, climbing into their dark, quiet spaces, and closing the doors behind me, effectively shutting out the real world. And in those moments of solitude, I would close my eyes and pray. Yes, pray. What would I exactly ask God to do for me?

To take me away to that magical world of Narnia. Not because I was trying to escape some terrible trauma, or emotional event. My life was in no way a tragedy. Nor was I so bored that I was desperate for a fantastical journey. I had books, toys, a friends, two siblings, a backyard, to keep me entertained. No, in the end, thinking back on it, C.S. Lewis had somehow convinced me that there was a magical world and that I would enjoy being a part of it. 

What did I end up doing after my prayers went unanswered? Daydream. I would remain there alone, curled up, and simply dream up my own universe.

I have since stopped locking myself away in closets (sorry, this was never a metaphor for my sexuality—I am quite certain of my attraction towards the opposite sex). Partially because I do not fit in them anymore. Also, there are people in the house who are constantly seeking my attention. I do not wish to disturb any more than I already have. 

But I have not stopped daydreaming. Adulthood has required that I do it in less conspicuous ways: sitting in a car during someone else’s doctor’s appointment. reclining in a chair while napping, laying on the couch during a movie, floating in a pool at dusk, lounging beside a fire pit at night.

And I have changed my expectations. Prayer is not wishing. This world is the only real one. And engaging with people, instead of hiding away in secluded places, makes for great experiences.  

Now, if only instead of daydreaming, I would spend some of that time writing my stories down…