Connect, disconnect, reconnect. Repeat.

I have been thinking a lot about relationships. In particular, how being connected to others is what ultimately leaves us so alone. Yes, that sounds incredibly bleak, but what I mean to say is, the majority of my life has been propelled by the relationships I have cultivated -- familial, friendly, romantic -- and it is the emotional fiber of these bonds that leaves me vulnerable and wounded when something is severed or skewed. The easiest event to understand being the direct shearing of such a bond -- a death, a quick transition, a tragic event. But there are many other kinds of stresses which pull and tug at our connections with the people we love and care about which are not immediately obvious but which also cause turmoil and stress, confusion, sadness and isolation. This also leads me to think a lot about meditation, and specifically ascetic practices that encourage self-depravation. We normally think about this in terms of sacrifice. This seems particularly appropriate for those around me celebrating Lent right now: I will give up sweets! My favorite television show! Sleeping-in! While certainly an enlightened step for some, I’m talking more about the lifestyles of, say, monks; the conscious decision to live a life in constant meditation and deprivation in order to enrich one’s spirituality. Therein lies the problem: If I were to devote myself to a life of solitude and meditation -- deprive myself the satisfaction of fulfilling, social interactions with other human beings (among other things) -- would I truly bring myself closer to a spiritually enlightened place? That is, is it not the loss of such connection to others that reminds me, humbled, of just how truly alone and spiritual I am or can be? If I have never known such relationships, what would I have to measure my solitude against? Of course I am talking in extremes, Simeon the Stylite vs. Sally the Socialite, but I do think there is a lot buried in social connection that people overlook and undervalue as superficial or unimportant. I think most people can recall, during some of the happiest and fortunate moments of our lives, that feeling of being overwhelmingly fortunate. For me, that often has to do with feeling extremely grateful for the relatively small, but wonderful group of people in my life with whom I feel closely connected. Then there are the opposite moments when there are blips in these emotionally fulfilling relationships: rips, stretches and twists on that emotional fabric. The feelings associated with this, juxtaposed with memories of the feelings of overwhelming goodwill, are sharp and deep reminders of how uncertain even these relationships are, but also reminders of how good these relationships were/are/could or might be again. I find myself as grateful for these painful moments as I am for just having these relationships in the first place. It is true that the moments of sever are when I find myself less likely to be rational and thoughtful but uncomfortably emotional and when I definitely find myself swimming in emotionally difficult turmoil, but again: I am grateful for this. It is the act of catching those reigns and reminding myself of what is good and worthwhile that also reminds me of my own spirituality. I guess all this is to say that I am feeling solemn and thankful for the relationships I have had in my life. Both for them and what they have and will continue to reveal about myself.