Letters to My Son: Action Is the Only Valid Response

My dear son,

Tobe born is to be cast into a play where the script was lost before the first rehearsal, and we are left to mumble our lines in the dark, hoping the silence doesn’t swallow us whole. You are there, and I am here, and between us lies the immense, terrifying distance of a life that refuses to explain itself.

We are strange creatures, aren’t we?

Every evening, we perform the ritual of the long horizontal. We lay ourselves down, close our eyes, and essentially practice for the end. There is no contract signed with the universe that says the lungs will continue their bellows or that the blood will keep its circular track until dawn.

The heart is a lonely muscle, and it owes us nothing. It could stop mid-beat, leaving the room exactly as it is, indifferent to our unfinished business or the shoes we left by the door.

And yet, in the face of this absolute uncertainty, we reach out a hand. We turn the dial. We set the alarm. We schedule a noise to shatter the silence at seven o’clock.

This is not logic.

Logic would suggest we simply wait for the void or the sun, whichever arrives first. But we choose the noise. We choose the expectation. That tiny, mechanical click of the alarm is the most violent act of defiance we possess. It is the definition of hope, stripped of its feathers and its songs, reduced to a gear turning against the dark.

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I have spent a lifetime watching the shadows stretch across the wall, waiting for something to happen that would make the struggle feel like a bargain. You will find, as you walk further into the gray, that the world is remarkably quiet when you ask it for directions. There is no grand design handed out at the gate. There is only the repetition. The putting on of the left boot, then the right boot. The buttoning of the coat. The walk to the corner and back again.

It is easy to mistake this for despair. It is not. Despair is too heavy, too dramatic. This is simply the condition. We are here, and while we are here, we must do something with the light we were given, even if that light is only enough to see the next inch of the path.

To hope is not to expect a miracle; it is to refuse to lie down before the clock tells you to. It is the stubbornness of the grass growing through the cracked pavement. It doesn’t ask if it will be stepped on. It just grows.

Your body will eventually betray the spirit, and the spirit will eventually tire of the body. This is the honest trade.

Do not look for comfort in the illusions of permanence. Everything is in a state of departing. The house leans. The trees shed. The very air we breathe is borrowed from a sky that doesn’t know our names.

But look at the hands. Look at your own hands. They are capable of holding, of lifting, of turning the dial of that alarm. There is a profound dignity in the mundane. There is a holiness in the simple act of preparing for a tomorrow that has not yet earned its right to exist.

We live in the “not yet.” We live in the gap between the breath taken and the breath promised. If you can find a way to stand in that gap without trembling, you will have found the only kind of peace that isn’t a lie.

I have no maps to give you. A map would only lead you to where I have been, and that place is gone. The landmarks have shifted. The rivers have dried.

All I can offer is the observation of the struggle itself. Do not be afraid of the silence. It is only the sound of the world waiting for you to speak.

When you wind your watch or set the digital pulse of your phone tonight, recognize it for what it is. It is a prayer without a god. It is a demand for a future. You are saying to the night, “I am not finished.” And even if the night disagrees, the act of asking is enough. It has to be enough. We go on. We must go on. I will go on until I cannot, and you will do the same, and in that shared persistence, there is a love that needs no adjectives.

Acknowledge the Absurdity.

Do not waste energy trying to make the world make sense. Accept that the alarm clock is a ridiculous tool in a fragile life, and find strength in that absurdity.

Value the Routine.

The ritual is the anchor. The small, repetitive acts of daily living are what keep the mind from drifting into the abyss.

Embrace the Silence.

Truth is rarely found in noise. Learn to sit with the quiet of your own company without the need to fill it with distractions.

Persist Without Guarantee.

The lack of a “living tomorrow” is not a reason to quit; it is the very reason to set the alarm. Action is the only valid response to uncertainty.

Dad

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This post was previously published on medium.com.