Mapquest, revenge, and "Finlandia" III

~~ Sunday evening ruminations, Part Three

Finally:

We sang a hymn in church on Sunday. I recognized the melody of Finnish composer Jean Sibelius, but we didn't sing the words I was thinking of.

When I came home, I went online and found the words I'd had in mind. Turns out they're Lloyd Stone's:




This is my song 
Oh god of all the nations
A song of peace
For lands afar and mine


This is my home
The country where my heart is
Here are my hopes
My dreams my holy shrine


But other hearts
In other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams
As true and high as mine


My countries skies
Are bluer than the ocean
And sunlight beams
On clover leaf and pine


But other lands
Have sunlight too and clover
And skies are everywhere
As blue as mine



Not only is the melody enough to break your heart, but the words really cut right to the heart of the matter: no matter how different we are, we're the same.

Which means that for every snarky blog posting I write about solipsistic people and emotionally-stunted people and Felix Unger-types who go behind your back and take the hand towel from where you slung it and fold it neatly in thirds and place it over the towel bar so that the ends are exactly even … someone else could write the same number of snarky blog posts about people who talk too much and too loudly and are hyper-sensitive and chaotic and Oscar Madison-types who have to tunnel through the clutter just to find the kitchen.

And all it does is add to the general snarkiness of the Universe and doesn't do a damn thing toward moving anyone closer to that ultimate goal of the friend who sees you and loves you and accepts you just exactly as  you are.

So. Perhaps the time comes when you're done venting and journaling and bending the ears of friends and therapists … when you're done moving the slider in on everything that went wrong and have finally zoomed out to a place where you have a tiny bit of perspective … when you've put (most) of your revenge fantasies away or at least delegated them to friends with more creative imaginations than yours … when you substitute the wine and the Kleenex for a pile of warm dogs and a slasher movie where the bad guy gets it … then you get to that place where glib doesn't cut it any more and perhaps needs a rest, anyway.

That place where you grieve what might have been … the end of what was … and where the sadness comes, too, from the knowledge that there is no villain. So it's not simple and it's not tidy and it's not glib … and the worst part is, it's not your first time at this particular rodeo and it won't be the last.

So you cry.