[illusions]

I was in Las Vegas this past weekend and it was awesome. The sun, the people watching, the pools, the Yogurtland... It was a vacation's vacation: I had a little time to cry, a lot of time to read [I finished The Great Gatsby. So great!] and think and be, and some great people for company.

Vegas is great, but it's an incredibly odd place. It's attractive because it's repulsive, like those giant carp I fed in Lake Mead. (See my FB for the video. And imagine it with giant vacuum-sucking sounds) It's the land where Paris, Venice, New York, and Egypt rise out of the desert, where stark mountains meet lights that outshine the moon, a place where everything is a copy. But they're exactly the kind of copies that make you want the real thing a little bit more.
Only a crazy person would actually think that the Paris Casino is just what Paris is like. Only a boring person would say "Well, I've been to Caesar's Palace, so I don't need to take that opportunity to go to Rome." Right? We differentiate. I think this is what Lewis was talking about when he said "We are far too easily pleased..." This life has some indications of being a giant, cheesy, misaligned shadow of where we're supposed to live and who we're all meant to be. Not to say we shouldn't enjoy Vegas for what it is [and I did!], just like we should enjoy Venice or Portland for exactly what we experience there, but we shouldn't stake our hope in the illusion.

I'm still fighting ANTs. I'm still journaling my fears and giving up my every moment to a will greater than mine. And more than anything, I want what is real.

So how do I tell when something I'm experiencing is real? Is this pressing in to God an illusion? Or could it be true? I didn't take Philosophy in college because I thought my weak mind might explode, but I am going to attempt a little philosophizing about this moment. I expect to understand, retract, or develop this at some point, because that's what should happen with time and growth, but I've got to start somewhere.

If I was experiencing a dulling of my pain, I'd say this renewal of my spiritual and emotional growth was illusory or escapist. But to have hope through the pain, to feel every single bit of it under my skin, and still trust and turn over my unwilling will? That is real. It has to be. It's the opposite of these ANTs. It sometimes seems like the opposite of what I want. Anything that makes me want God a little bit more and be willing to want me a little less is real.

Flannery O'Connor wrote, "The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it." And that's true. I know this, because if I were making up Truth, I'd make it be something I could control. Or at least something I could explain. Something humanity could collectively and finally and completely discover, which would be the same as controlling it. But we can't; we can only understand parts of Truth. I think we've got enough to start on; we've got enough to realize that mystery will always exist, but love can meet you in that moment where even your thoughts are out to get you. I've got enough truth to live on and keep learning. And perhaps we understand best what is true when it conflicts with what we'd choose?

It's that faithful pursuit of otherness that truly recreates us. Love is the deepest mode of knowing, because it is love that, while completely engaging with reality other than itself, affirms and celebrates that other-than-self reality. [N. T. Wright, Lecture 2007]

The contrast of sandstone and skyscrapers is just as abrupt and beautiful.