The meaningful struggle

I have had a blog post on the tip of my tongue all day and not quite been able to spit anything out, so I hope this is finally it!

The last few weeks in my American Literature classes we have been studying existentialism. Without going into too much depth, existentialists started popping up around the turn of the century (the last century). Their fundamental philosophies centered around the simple fact that we exist. Beyond that there isn't much meaning. They do, however, believe that we have free will (agency). In fact, the only real meaning comes from choosing to create a meaningful struggle, choosing to fight for something that will create meaning. [note: some famous American existentialists include F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby), J. D. Salinger (Catcher in the Rye and "A Perfect Day for Bananafish"), T. S. Eliot ("The Waste Land), and Ernest Hemingway (For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises and "Hills Like White Elephants").]

While existentialist beliefs don't really coincide with LDS doctrine, there is something about existentialism that I love. It is their dogged determination in choosing a meaningful struggle. They are fighters. They want life to be meaningful even while much of what surrounds and overwhelms them is the material and the meaningless. Today we continued reading and talking about "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" in which the main character, Seymour Glass, is at the end of his rope. His wife, his mother-in-law, even his psychiatrist think he is going crazy. But I don't buy it. I think everyone else around him are the ones going crazy; they are completely caught up in themselves, money, clothes, martinis, and social class. To Seymour they are like his imagined "bananafish" that

"swim into a hole where there's a lot of bananas. They're very ordinary-looking fish when they swim in. But once they get in, they behave like pigs. Why, [he says,] I've known some bananafish to swim into a banana hole and eat as many as seventy-eight bananas. . . . Naturally, after that they're so fat they can't get out of the hole again. Can't fit through the door."

And when they can't get out, they die. The way I read this parable, everyone around Seymour has become like the bananafish--gorging themselves on materialism until they are metaphorically dead. Only Seymour sees the meaninglessness of their money, their social standing, their frivolousness. He wants the innocence that Sybil, a 4 or 5 year-old girl, embodies. He wants the meaningful struggle.

Unfortunately for Seymour, he doesn't see a way to obtain it, and so he commits suicide. Of course I don't advocate such an act. But I do believe in the meaningful struggle. I think far too much we (I) want life to be easy. We expect things to come without much pain or heartache or struggle. But it just doesn't work that way. I was rereading my journal today in which I wrote down that everything meaningful is painful. I feel a little skip in heart telling me again that it is true. The most meaningful things will be the most painful. To be a good teacher, I have to work hard, sacrifice, think, be myself (even if that means being vulnerable to a group of 15-18 year olds). I have to open my heart to them and let them see what is inside if I want to have any sort of influence for good. To be able to empathize and sincerely love someone I have to experience a piece of the hurt they may feel. We have to struggle, we have to suffer, we have to become humble. Oh how I sometimes wish it was another way! But I just don't think it is.

And while I often fight against the struggle and pray for the trial to be over, I know deep in my heart it is the only way. The goal isn't to simply endure whatever the current struggle is, but to become like God while in the refiners fire. The witness never comes until after the trial. It is the pattern God shows us over and over in the scriptures and over and over in our own lives in ways both large and small. I am so grateful for that pattern. I am grateful for the struggle. It is what gets me up on my feet and doing something for someone else. It is what encourages me to make myself vulnerable one more time.

Yet again, this is what I love about literature. I love how it makes me see the world from a new perspective; I love how it helps me change my perspective; I love how it helps me to remember the things that I already know. To remember that I am here for a reason. Never fear, never doubt. How is it I am so slow to remember that the Lord has promised that He will lead and guide me if I will but ask. And I do ask—so I must also trust in the answer. If this is where I need to be, so be it! I really do love it here in Blanding. I love the peace of my little home. It is a sanctuary, a safe place. It is where I am learning to cook and clean and sew and go to bed early. I am learning to listen to the solitude and reach out to others. I am learning to look inside myself and see what is there. I am so grateful for this time—as painful as it sometimes is. I am learning to love my family and to be strong and independent (not that I really think I needed to learn that—I already am too much!). I am glad I am here. I am glad for what I have to offer and the opportunities I have to give it. It is hard, when you are in the midst of it, to really see what is going on in your life. And yet, I do catch glimpses of how lucky I am to be here, to know these bright and talented young men and women, to read and read and read, to be learning what I must learn to be a good teacher. I am so grateful for this chance. Where else in the world would I get to teach juniors and seniors and AP English as a first year teacher? Where else in the world could I have too much time to think and plan and meet new people? So even if it is a struggle, it is a joyful (and often fun) and most importantly, a meaningful struggle.