When I first started listening to the Beatles, I felt like I was listening to music for the first time. It isn't like I'd never liked music before, but most of the music I listened to was music my parents listened to or music I was exposed to in choir. I didn't have my very own favorite band. Not really. I went through a period where I really liked Train and listened to their albums constantly, especially when I was writing. I also once identified strongly with punk rock and ska music, but didn't have any favorites. When I started listening to the Beatles, I knew that I wanted to listen to every single thing they ever performed. I bought my first CD within the next week. I looked up each of them on Wikipedia, then found out everything I could about each album, then each song. Before long, I was getting books out from the library. LOOONG books. Extensive biographies. At first I read without thinking, not stopping to consider which authors were biased toward John or Paul, or which simplified events to the point of meaninglessness. While reading one biography, I realized that I recognized the source the author was using. That started happening more and more often, and I began to realize that I had actual personal opinions about the lives and personalities of the Beatles. I thought I understood why the band broke up, why John and Yoko were inseparable, why Paul couldn't handle her presence. I empathized with them both. I understood each person in the story, and didn't hate any of them. The tale began to feel like the saga of King Arthur to me. I don't hate Mordred, I don't hate Lancelot, I don't hate Arthur, I don't hate Paul, I don't hate John, I don't hate Yoko. I used to stay awake at night, running through scenarios in my head, thinking about what questions I would ask Paul and Ringo if I ever had the chance to interview them. I would ask Paul why he laughed in the middle of Maxwell's Silver Hammer. I'd ask Ringo if he liked acting or singing more.
To be honest, my fascination frightened me. Sometimes I worried that I'd never be able to stop thinking about the Beatles. I wondered if I should stop reading up on them to attempt to curb my own interest.
Life isn't like that. Maybe some people never get over their fixations, but most of the time people just get interested in other things. I still like the Beatles, but they don't consume me. I'm waiting for my next passion to come along. Then I'll learn everything I could ever want to know about that thing. Just like I learned everything I could about the Beatles. Just like I learned everything I could about ancient Egypt. Or Greek mythology. Or Garry Marshall. Things change. People get interested in other things. Most brains don't get stuck on one idea for their whole lives.
I was thinking about personality quizzes, and how I wish that there was some brain measuring thing somewhere that would just tell you everything about yourself. Because personality quizzes aren't that accurate. You pretty much end up getting what you want to get. A three year old could manipulate one of those quizzes to get the answer she wants. So I always end up being nice and awesome on those quizzes when I'm not really especially nice or awesome. I'm pretty much normal. Like, if I take a Beatles quiz, I'm going to get John Lennon as a result, because he's the Beatle I would want to be, so the test wouldn't end up being accurate. Likewise, I like to think that I'm a super-creative person, so when I take Meyers-Briggs tests, I end up being an ENFP, which is pretty creative and empathetic and stuff. I think that I'm like that. I know I want to be like that. Am I really?
So then I was wondering if maybe the fact that I WANT to be those things makes me like those things. Just the fact that I value creativity might mean that I'm naturally inclined to be a creative person. Doesn't our desire to be better influence how good we actually are? Then again, I know people who think they're really good listeners and value good listening, but actually are terrible at listening to people. Or people who think they're funny but aren't. Etc etc.
That's the point in my thought process where I start wondering if I really know anything at all.
(Usually it turns out I don't. Or that I know part of something. Or that I used to know something but then thought that thing wasn't true, but now it appears that it is true. The thing about knowing things is that the strongest thing I think you can ever do is THINK you know it. I don't know if you can ever know you know it, because maybe everything isn't as it seems. And that's why it takes faith to believe in anything.)
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting beside the breakfast table, thinking about my troubles (not literally the breakfast table, mind you). Typically, that kind of activity does more harm than it does good. So of course I ended up thinking about how awful my life is and how many problems I have, and how I don't think any of them will ever be solved, and then I talked to my mom and realized that EVERYONE has really horrible lives, and no one will ever be happy, and life is a vale of tears. (I'm being hyperbolic, but you understand what I'm getting at.) So I was laying in bed, and I started praying, because that's what I do when I'm really upset. I just start complaining to God. Then I thought, "Hey, if everyone's lives suck so much, why should you even think God is listening to you? Why should you even think there is a God?"
I guess I think about evil as much as the next person, but there's always been some pat little argument I learned in high school to argue that God exists, even in the face of evil. But that night, none of those arguments made sense. They were all bull. (I think most of them are probably bull anyway.) So I just said, "God, what the heck. Why? Why, why why?" And then I curled up into a ball, because if there's no God, then there's no point, really. If there's no God, then everything sucks and then everything is over, and that's awful. If there's no God, then there's no point in morality, and there's no point in love, and there's no point in art. So I just stayed in bed for a while, saying over and over "God, please exist, please exist, please exist. Because I don't want to fool myself into believing. Just let me know. I need to know You're there."
Nothing really great happened. There wasn't any flash of lightning. But gradually a sense of calmness filled the room, and I stopped whispering to myself. I was just quiet for a little bit. And I read my Bible, and I read about faith, and I thought, "Okay, God, here's my faith back. I don't know if You're there, but I'm going to go ahead and cast this out, and see if You grab the other end." And I didn't feel like I was alone. I didn't feel a presence in the room, or anything. But I just felt like there was some reason in the universe. That my faith had caught on to something bigger. And then I fell asleep. (I think the sleep might be the strongest argument for God in this story, because my mind was so occupied that I don't know how else I could've slept.)
Sometimes people call Christianity a crutch. Okay, sure. It's a crutch. But when everyone is going around with two broken legs, I don't see a crutch as a bad thing.
