He wouldn’t say shit if his mouth was full of it. . .

So, at a loss for words today, I found myself pulling from a partition of English ill-suited for polite society—while on the phone with my mother, no less—but today was an exceptional day. I hate swearing, it’s cheap, and where I live, used as meaningless filler noise, like muttering “um,” between vocalized thoughts. Sometimes, the best and only description of a crude situation is crude.

What was the situation? Well, it was shit, old, dried out shit that people were content to, fought to, live in. I wish this were merely metaphorical, but the literal and figurative fact was that my friends and I spent the day trying to help someone let go of all the crap—some of it actual excrement—of a self-destructive history.

This has been, contradictorily, one of the best days of my life. Dr. Peterson says something along these lines: Life may turn out tragic even when you do your best, but you can be sure of damning it to Hell if you really want. I have spent the sunlit hours helping someone take a few steps out of their own personal hell, one which, as the Doctor describes, the patient fought hard to protect. As an aside regarding the sun: even the weather seemed to parallel the situation, jumping from torrents of rainfall and hail to bright and blue skies.

It is hard to put into words all that has happened while respecting the privacy of those concerned, and as a result I fear this post appears rambling, if not convoluted. Our patient, the person we were trying to “save,” I could see within myself. All the little tricks and manipulations which the patient employed—employed against the patient’s long term interests—I recognized from my own darker moments.

So, I’m left with this question: Out of what shit is God trying to bring me, and am I fighting to stay in Hell by demanding my damnable shit come along? One cannot leave Hell and keep it.

If we insist on keeping Hell (or even earth) we shall not see Heaven: if we accept Heaven we shall not be able to retain even the smallest and most intimate souvenirs of Hell.

C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

P.S.

There is so much more to be said about today that cannot be publicized, so much I long to write. Read The Great Divorce; it so eloquently relates the truth of my day. If I could find it, I would make allusions to a children’s book series containing a short story about the saving of a young girl who contented herself with pretending to be a pig, wallowing around in filth. Oh, and check out another post I wrote regarding Dr. Peterson: Puppet or What?

Perhaps tomorrow I may be able to refine my above ramblings into a more cohesive narrative.