I was born an idealist. A romantic. ( Oddly enough, as my parents were of the rather pragmatic, down-to-earth kind. ) I believed in all that stuff: Everything has a meaning, there is a God and he speaks, life is a wonderful adventure, the universe has patterns and symbols and miracles, there are mysteries to solve and treasures to find and a soulmate somewhere out there who will love me until death do us part. And if you do the right thing, the inevitable result is happily-ever-after.
As many born idealists, I am now a hardcore cynic. ( Realists seldom turn cynics as disappointments don't knock them down the same way. )
One sunny morning recently, as I was walking to work, the thought struck me: "Is this the reason I often feel at odds with myself?" I have looked at the facts - broken hearts, meaningless tragedies, an absent God, betrayals, hopelessness, the unbearable tedium of daily routine - and created an armour of non-belief and distrust around me. But no matter how appropriate and safe, even true, this armour seems, it fits me ill. It pinches, itches, chokes me. It's not me.
So, truth does not fit me? Maybe it's not the whole truth, just the surface of it. ( Ironically, that is a rather idealistic thought. ) Maybe there are some patterns and miracles after all, a few beautiful mysteries and a few people capable of loving and maybe even a God somewhere. And none of us have yet seen the whole picture, so who's to say Good and Right won't prevail in the end after all. I'm not saying I believe yet. But sometimes I'm willing to try, very cautiously, a little bit.
Because the world needs idealists and romantics. We are the ones who make others see these things. We are the ones, in an otherwise empty and ugly world, who believe these things into existence.
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