The Ocean of the Unknown

We are all born into the ocean of the unknown; an ocean spanning farther than the eye can see, descending deeper than can be imagined. Before our first gasping breath, we are grabbed by the ankles and brought to an island. Perhaps this is necessary so we do not drown, or perhaps we underestimate our ability to learn how to navigate the ocean. From that moment on, we are falsely told our birth took place on land, not water, that the other islands, some a swimming distance away, others thousands of miles away, are different. They are to be tolerated and respected, sometimes even understood and, save for the occasional clashing of swords, clamoring of gunshots and ricocheting of cannonballs, they are. Yet during times of peace, you hear the faint murmurs of censure, silent criticisms and condemnations of the other islands. In the back of our mind, whether aware or not, we think we are right. We remain tolerant, we show respect, but we think we are right.

Truth is relative. In actuality our eyes see the world upside down; it is our brain that interprets the signals sent through the optic nerve. Interprets, as in details will be lost in translation, as in what you see, literally and biologically, differs from what I see. If we begin to factor in experience and seeing in a less literal sense, we all focus on different objects and nuances with a different intensity; we pay attention to select feelings, sounds and smells. The world inside me is not the same world inside you; those worlds do not coincide with the world that is outside our experience. The notion of obtaining objectivity through our fallible and limited human senses is eradicated. Functioning under this crushing realization that we really do not know anything for certain, however, is unbearable. To soothe the crippling anxiety, we take a leap of faith somewhere, aware or not. In the midst of unexplained chaos we inscribe an absolute in stone; envelop ourselves in a necessary blanket of security. Notice, I have already shared mine: truth is relative. Yet, by that logic, even that statement is relative, but to refrain from going mad, I am going to tell you it is my leap of faith, my delusion if you will. Let me share it with you a little longer with it.

When I was brought to the island of Sikhism, my feet never touched the ground. My body basked in the sunlight and I felt the grainy sand beneath me. My feet remained submerged. As the years went by, unaware, I would slip a little further until one day, not too many years ago, with a few frightful glances to the grandeur I was leaving behind, I plunged headfirst into the blue.

The ocean was cold. I felt a thousand minuscule needles piercing and then hardening my skin; the fluid in my bones turned to ice. Yet, for the first time I felt certain, even if it was certainty in my uncertainty. In a matter of seconds, I resurfaced and let the water gently rock me back and forth. I was back to my birthplace. I was home.

When I had soaked up enough silence, I began to travel from island to island, absorbing, observing and learning as much as I could.

For a month, I was sure I was an atheist. Science filled the void religion left. The existential idea that millions of light years away, eons and eons ago a spontaneous explosion sparked life, that we are just star dust, that there was no purpose to my life other than the one I assigned to it, entranced me. It did not take long to be humbled. Science, I learned, was the study of cause and effect, the study of interactions. It gave approximations to what happens, hints at what is, and close to nothing to why things are. Betrayed, I returned to the ocean.

Language, I realized, was not an absolute either. Like science, it was a translation of something greater under the radar of our consciousness. I clung onto the belief there was God, that it was the translations that had gone awry. Religion was, after all, passed down through words.  As poetic and beautiful as the words could be, religion was embedded with a flaw greatly overlooked. Agnosticism appeared before me as the answer. I felt the glowing of the sun on my skin, the sand underneath me: an island for my own, it seemed, finally, as I lay down in serenity. The ocean did not call out this time. No, this time it was the haunting echoes of piercing screams and cries left unheard by God that jolted me awake. The sunlight no longer felt warm, it burned; I could not come up with anything to justify the horrors inflicted on the innocent. That we were granted free will, but threatened by fate, baffled me. The ocean of the unknown welcomed me without hesitation once again.

I continued traveling from -ism to school of thought. None could keep me. Who was right, who was wrong? Was there a right or wrong? Was there anything at all? It was too much. I envied the people safe on land, stared to hate them. How could they believe? How could they speak their words with so much conviction? Why was I all alone? Hot tears of anguish rolled down my face. There was too much- the more I learned, the less I knew. The vastness of the ocean began to suffocate me. It was here the storm began.

Tears continued to roll down my cheeks as I clenched my teeth and shut my eyes. Rain fell from the sky in torrents as I sobbed harder and harder. The gentle rocking of the ocean now shook me left and right. The intensity would tear me to shreds I was sure.

Amidst the chaos, I became detached from my body. I watched myself previously shut eyes and furrowed eyebrows relax, my teeth were no longer clenched, and my sobs quieted with every passing second. A look of defeat took over. How I was able to see myself, I’m not sure.

My body, now limp, began to drown with only slight, agitated movements. I, the one who observed my body sinking, the shapeless, began to gravitate upwards. I imagined myself transforming into a bird, slowly flapping my wings, ascending higher and higher. Funny, I thought, how my tears and the droplets of rain melded into the ocean as if they never left. Funny, how all the islands, disparate and distinguishable at first, could not be told apart with distance: they all belonged to the same water.

Down below, the last bits of air began to leave my lungs in bubbles. I flapped what seemed to be my wings faster.

The invisible connection became visible; the unseen thread between the islands breathtaking. The Sufis spun around in circles, heads pointed to the sky, their dresses turning with them, chanting Allah to find this. Buddhist monks leaned against a tree as they sat on the damp ground of the forest to empty their mind until all they saw was this. Americans, disgusted by ritualistic religion, searched from it in cramped concerts and crowded coffee shops where singers and poets spilled their hearts out. People searched for it in the person they loved. This feeling, not being, was what everyone looked for, this all encompassing light, this thread of connection, even if it only appeared during their dying breath, even if they did not know they searched for it. I guess this is what people call God. But anyone who knows this, knows a name is not enough to describe it.

The shapeless me reentered the drowning me, and I was one with myself again. With desperate, jerky movements I tried resurfacing and gasped violently once I did.

Born again. This time no one drags me to an island.

When there was enough air in my lungs, I let out chopped laughter. The hollow statement that God is everywhere took on a new meaning. God, whatever it, not he, is, doesn’t do, it just is. And that was enough to keep me swimming. The anger and pain vanquished, the liberation overwhelmed and once again, there was silence: a deeper, more profound silence.

———

Now, I know I cannot keep swimming forever. Sometimes I dream of washing up on the shore of the brave Sikhs. Yes, God is everywhere, even in the most desolate corners of the Earth, in the most barren of people, but some places it is louder. I dream of the tabla synchronizing with the beating of my heart, dream of the warmth of a community where the old and young sing together. Sometimes, I forget I am a visitor and even dream of staying. But the lure of the ocean is too strong; I cannot ignore the gentle lapping of the water kissing the shore.

People have called me weak for this. They tell me I am restless, have no inner sense of peace. But they forget the calm comes after the storm, and my storm has just begun to fade. They forget that all who wander are not lost. I am not lost, just finding my way.

And even then, if I misunderstood God and there really is a being watching over us, I’m sure with its infinite knowledge it’ll understand what I am unable to.