Memories of Melting Ice

Every winter when I was in college, I always loved returning to campus in January to find the center of campus transformed into something of an art gallery.  The university would host dozens of artists who would create over 100 ice sculptures, depicting giant recreations of dramatic scenes, imaginary creatures, and even a koala.  The sculptures were best viewed at night as the sculptures were illuminated from multiple angles, bringing a new dimension and even life to the opaque figures slowly being covered by the gently falling snow.  

Unfortunately, this outdoor art exhibit would only last a few weeks as varying temperatures or those bent on destroying what is beautiful would leave the artists’ works looking more and more grotesque and unrecognizable.  Shattered ice fragments littered the sidewalks and each day the sculptures became smaller and smaller and the former glory of these works that dotted the campus remained only in our quickly fading memories.  

I think that I am always struck by artists that do this kind of work or those that create beautiful sandcastles, knowing full well that their efforts and skill will only be on display for a brief moment before vandals, the crashing waves, or rising temperatures reduce everything to rubble. I would imagine that there is a great tension within those that do this work knowing that a natural part of its eventual destruction. Perhaps these artists have come to terms with the limitations of their medium...or perhaps better yet, maybe they are able to create better because of this limitation. 

It seems like a normal human tendency to try and cling to what is good, or at least, what is perceived as good. I remember as a child playing with glow sticks and trying desperately to figure out how to capture the light - capture that moment so that it wouldn’t end.  I would put the plastic tubes into the freezer, thinking that it would halt the slow decay of light...but it would never work. I would always find that, no matter my efforts, I would always be left with a pale yellow remnant of what was once something so powerfully vibrant.  

How easy it is to do this with those we love.  Parents feeling the ache as their child ages. Taking picture after picture in order to try and stop time - to stop the changes as the child grows.  Even more painful may be the knife to the heart as their child begins to take charge of their own life, making decisions… maybe even bad decisions, and fighting that interior struggle of trying to cling to happier times while at the same time living in that raw moment of seeing someone we love change… or become something different than we knew before.  

This happens in friendships as well when reuniting with someone we haven’t seen for a while and noticing that they don’t look all that different, but something inside of them has changed.  A connection that once was there is now severed and all that we can do to try to revive the friendship is tell stories from years past in an effort to resuscitate and cling to a time where we seemingly had meaning in our shared existence.  

Perhaps the most painful moment, though, is when we find ourselves surrounded by the smell of flowers and hushed sympathetic voices as we open our eyes to see the body of a loved one in the casket before us.   No matter how many times we blink or look away and return to the visage before us, something is different. 

This isn’t my beloved. 

This isn’t someone I know. 

This is a stranger.  

This change, unlike the changes that happen when a child grows in size or in distance from his or her parents or when trying to recover a broken friendship, seems so final. We are confronted by the regrets, the words we wish we would’ve said sooner, the need to ask for forgiveness. In everything else in life it always seems like there is more time. Always a chance to try again. We can become spoiled in the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that pass by believing that they will never end… but then they do and we are faced with the question, is it worth it? 

It’s all so risky.  It’s all so reckless.  

In loving others we not only create a space to welcome someone else into our hearts, but we also give of ourselves… freely sharing something of who we are and giving permission for someone else to take that part of us with them.  

We see this played out in healthy families, the best of friendships, and spousal relationships that have stood the test of time.  We see hearts that have made themselves vulnerable to the point that each of them carry the other with them - no matter the distance.  Even in death, in the most painful grief, we find that while the veil may separate us from those we loved, we still have that piece of them with us… and they have that piece of us with them as we fully believe that “life is changed, not ended.”

Unhealthy or immature relationships, on the other hand,  neglect this reality when only one person ends up giving everything of themselves or only one person ends up receiving everything.  Love is no longer freely given and received, leaving what may appear as a healthy relationship quickly deteriorating into some kind of parasitic vampirism, imitating life on the outside while secretly rotting from within.  

So, is it worth it?

Is it worth it for friends to pour out their hearts to one another?

Is it worth it for spouses to pour their hearts to each other?

Is it worth it for parents to pour their hearts into their children? 

Is it worth it to risk a wounded heart for the sake of loving another?

I can easily say, yes, obviously… but why?

Not only does this capacity for self-gift and opening our hearts to others point to the source of our being, but engaging in this reciprocal love with others really reveals who we were meant to be.  We were made for giving and receiving love.  In fact, when we learn to freely give and receive, we become more human.  

Sadly, this reality is often overshadowed or distorted by the brokenness of humanity...but this doesn’t mean that we should give up.  

The artists that create sculptures out of ice or sand know the limitations of their medium.  They know that the skill used in creating their works and the beauty that emerges from such delicate material will only last a short time… but that doesn’t stop them from creating - and doing so with a generous heart.  

In the same way, we can recognize the limitations of our own humanity, we can focus on the finitude of our earthly existence,  and it can be easy to give in to a hopelessness that fosters a cautious and tepid heart.  However, when we can see our weaknesses and limitations, not as obstacles, but instead as avenues to love better and more vulnerably, we can begin to learn what a generous heart truly looks like:  a heart not dominated by fear of potential damage or eventual decay, but a heart rooted in hope of coming more alive through this capacity for self-gift.  

It’s true, giving and receiving generously can be painful and can lead to a hardening of our hearts, turning them into stone in order to protect our deepest self.  As our hearts heal and we learn to trust again,  the hard exterior of our hearts slowly begins to crumble and a heart of flesh beats once more within us.  

Let’s create generously… let’s give and receive generously.