There’s a beautiful song by Bruce Cockburn on his 1996 album—aptly titled The Charity of Night—that seems like it was almost ready-made for this year’s Covid-19 ordeal. It’s called “Pacing the Cage.” Here’s a taste of the lyrics:
Sunset is an angel weeping
Holding out a bloody sword
No matter how I squint I cannot
Make out what it’s pointing toward
Sometimes you feel like you live too long
Days drip slowly on the page
You catch yourself
Pacing the cage …
Sometimes the best map will not guide you
You can’t see what’s round the bend
Sometimes the road leads through dark places
Sometimes the darkness is your friend
Today these eyes scan bleached-out land
For the coming of the outbound stage
Pacing the cage
The song has meant a lot to me over the years, especially in drearier times. It evokes the strange combination of restlessness and emptiness that is at the heart of modern life. Perhaps it’s akin to that feeling you have, as The Eagles put it, “After the Thrill Is Gone,” when at some point you inevitably feel let down by life—like you were sold a bill of goods—and start scrambling for an escape hatch (or three). You wonder: Is this all there is?
Since college, I’ve been prone to occasional bouts of such gloomy discontent, which often seem, in retrospect, like an embarrassing kind of navel-gazing. For whatever reason, I think I started feeling jaded and a bit cynical like that long before any of my circumstances justified it. At several points in my late twenties, that world-weariness intensified into something approaching depression. Despite still being quite young, I felt hopeless and adrift in both my career and relationships. I had this sense that I’d somehow already missed my chance for any better sort of life, and that grim acceptance was the only way forward—that my best hope was just to soldier on with a kind of stoic resignation. Perhaps you can relate.
But as my dad likes to say, “It’s what you learn after you know it all that really counts.” Now in my mid-thirties, it occurred to me recently that I haven’t felt like I was “pacing the cage” for quite some time, thank God. And I don’t think it was stoic resignation that brought me here. It feels more like an unexpected gift, like the slow work of grace.
A few days ago, when I listened to that gorgeous Cockburn song for the first time in ages, I was struck by how, even though I’m literally spending my days right now “pacing” around in small enclosed spaces, I don’t carry that sense of restless despair I used to. But why not? My present circumstances aren’t that much better than they were. It goes without saying that life’s been brutal in 2020, even for relatively privileged folks like me. I too have felt exhausted for months, cooped up, wracked with existential angst, starved for social contact, day-dreaming about going to the library or a restaurant or concert, fretting about politics, climate change, the economy…
And yet, somehow, even in my suffering, I feel strangely buoyant.
Let me give you an example. Last Sunday, I woke up tired—again. I seem to most days now. I finally dragged myself out of bed to go walk the neighbor’s dogs. I came home and had to console my wife a bit; she’d had an unsettling dream. I got some coffee, took a pill. For fun, I ate Captain Crunch for breakfast—for the first time in at least a decade. It tasted worse than I remember, but I enjoyed it as much as ever. After breakfast, we Skyped my parents who live in Myanmar. We mostly talked politics and the daily struggles of COVID life, as is typical of late. Eventually, my wife and I watched a church livestream in our living room, did a little yoga. Then we spent a couple hours cleaning and putzing and sorting crap around the house that had been laying around in piles for weeks. We argued a bit at lunch.
That afternoon, I got together online with an old buddy from high school to try something new—watching a movie together remotely. He picked Babette’s Feast, which I’d never seen. I adored it! Such a beautiful and dryly humorous message of grace! (For a taste, check out General Loewenhielmʼs speech.) After the flick I laid in bed for a while with my wife, then did two days worth of dishes and hung out with her while she made dinner—one of my favorites, spiced chickpea stew with coconut and turmeric. We sat on the couch and watched two episodes of a sitcom, mopping up ever last ounce of soup with crusts of bread. We got our daily dose of laughs, or “carbonated holiness,” as Anne Lamott puts it. I ate too much ice cream. Then we walked the neighbor’s dogs again in the cool evening air, came home, tidied up, and rounded out the day with a little reading.
It was hardly a spectacular day on its surface, and not terribly different from the last six months worth of Sundays. And yet, as far as I’m concerned, it was as good a day as you could have. I barely left the house, and yet never felt overly frustrated or pent up. In fact, by the end of the day, I was awash with gratitude, almost giddy with the stuff.
It reminded me a wonderful scene from the John Adams miniseries from back in 2008. It takes place toward the end of the series and Adams’ life. Feeble and close to 90, the former president is on an evening walk with his son on the family farm in Massachusetts. After a few disgruntled remarks, he says,
Still, still I am not weary of life. Strangely, I have hope. You take away hope and what remains? What pleasures? … I have seen a queen of France with 18 million livres of diamonds on her person, but I declare that all the charms of her face and figure, added to all the glitter of her jewels, did not impress me as much as that little shrub right there. Now your mother always said that I never delighted enough in the mundane, but now I find that if I look at even the smallest thing, my imagination begins to roam the Milky Way. Rejoice evermore. Rejoice evermore! It’s a phrase from St. Paul… REJOICE EVERMORE! I wish that had always been in my heart and on my tongue. I am filled with an irresistible impulse to fall on my knees right here in admiration.
John Adams was a notorious grump for much of his life, but there’s at least one actual letter he wrote late in life that used some of the ecstatic language above. What must have changed for Adams to enable him to feel this kind of relief from the politician’s life of constant jostling and striving—and have it replaced by joy? I suppose he probably had more time in his dotage to stop and smell the roses. But what else?
Surely, it’s that slow work of grace. Stephen Colbert has a sign on his computer that reads, “Joy is the most infallible sign of the existence of God.” It’s an infallible sign because we can’t manufacture it. It shows us that God is at work in and through us and all around us, bubbling like yeast beneath the surface, even as we’re grinding desperately away at the grist of our lives. There’s a lovely Rumi poem that puts this perfectly:
God’s joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed.
As roses, up from ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled. It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open.
I love that idea: that God’s joy moves through even the most mundane aspects of life, and then one day cracks them open and bursts forth.
There are practical things that have measurably improved my life in recent years, and those things are all gifts too. But by rights we should all be feeling pretty miserable right now, and sometimes I do. Still, I also can’t help but feel like, at some point, God has cracked open parts of my life and made it a little easier for me to experience some of his joy.
I can only assume there will be stretches down the road when I’ll again be overcome with that mix of restlessness and emptiness, when life will again feel desperately grim and uninspiring. Many I know feel that now. It’s certainly understandable. But know this: God has a way of dropping in on us when we least expect, cracking us open, springing us from our cages—opening us up to joy that otherwise felt impossible. May it happen for you.