Doubt

Doubt

I

The roar of the ocean brings me crashing back to the present. Intense sunlight floods my vision, momentarily blinding me. All I have is sound. The sound of waves lapping at the shore, the screams of seagulls, and the laughter of children. Soon, my eyes adjust and a whirl of shape and colour assaults them. The sky is a brilliant shade of pink as the sun is beginning to sink beneath the cerulean sea. I am standing at the edge of a long pier, staring out at the horizon. I can’t quite remember how or when I got here, but it feels like it’s been a long time. My legs are stiff from standing, and I shift my weight, trying to remember why I am here. A series of fragmented memories flash in my mind’s eye: A dilapidated room, an empty lecture hall, a coffee cup shattering as though it’s in slow motion. And then, I remember. I had been teaching a philosophy lecture, and the discussion was good. There were many bright students in the class; I could tell that many of them had the potential to do great things. I could see their lives flashing before my eyes, walking across the stage to receive their diploma, giving speeches as politicians, or raising families. And I knew it was meaningless. Everything, that is. And that day was the final push. So I simply stopped talking, and walked away from campus. And that is why I am here, standing on this pier: My teaching meant nothing! My career, my life…was nothing. But why am I here? Surely there must be some sort of reason for this existence, something to give meaning to my teaching! I carelessly climb over the railing of the pier, and picture myself letting go, and descending into the ocean below. But my hands lock onto the railing. Why am I afraid? If all is nothing, why is my instinct to survive? Survive for what? I close my eyes, as the waves crash against the pier; the freezing spray of seawater hits my eyes, shocking my body. And, for the briefest moment, I see clearly behind my closed eyes the face of an elderly woman whom I’ve never met, yet I know her.

II

Sister Claudia Üveg sighed as the cold sprinkle of water caressed her forehead. She opened her eyes and looked into the mirror on the wall. Looking back at her was an elderly woman though the lines in her face did not detract from her beauty, and she looked healthy. Today, she remembered, was the day she had been waiting for… today she would officially become an abbess. When she had first arrived at the convent, she was an anxious seventeen year-old, eager to devote her life to service of the Lord. The days of learning to cook, sew, and sing seemed far away now. When her fellow nuns had elected her to lead the convent, she had initially felt anxious. Would she be able to lead them as well as her predecessor? Would they wish they had chosen someone else and just wait begrudgingly until her time passed? But as time progressed, Claudia began to see that her sisters loved her, and knew that they had faith in her when they wrote her name on their ballots.

“Sokan vannak, de kevesen a választottak.” Many are called, but few are chosen. She whispered aloud. There was a gentle knock at the door to the east, and Claudia wiped her hands on a towel. Opening the door, one of the sisters poked her head inside.

“Sister Claudia, the bishop is here!” the sister whispered excitedly, and Claudia waved her away while she prepared herself. Once she had readied herself, Sister Claudia left her room and found herself tracing the familiar path along the cloister towards the chapel. With each step she took, her heartbeat quickened, and sweat began to trickle across her brow. Perhaps the bishop would see through her smiling face, and notice some of the error in her eyes. When she was in the candlelit chapel, she smiled warmly as she greeted the bishop. They talked for what felt like many minutes, and it became time for her to be blessed. Throughout the entire ordeal, Claudia had a crazy urge to throw her hands into the air and declare her treachery…but she remained composed. The bishop placed his palms together and greeted Claudia as Mother. Where there should have been joy and a deeper sense of purpose, she felt only fear. Excusing herself to her chambers, she sat on her bed and began to ruminate. I lack the faith to lead them. Was all she could think. They’ve chosen one who no longer believes with the fervor she once did! And she was too cowardly to confess.

“And he that doubteth is damned if he eat, because he eateth not of faith: for whatsoever is not of faith is sin.” She whispered, lowering her head into her hands.



                                                 

III

Francesco Vetro lifted his head from his hands, and let out a loud groan. He stared vehemently at the blank canvas before him. Why was it so difficult for him to paint? Hailed as “One of the greatest artists of the century”, he had dozens of his works displayed in world renowned galleries; and a great deal of pressure to create only the best. But lately he couldn’t seem to paint anything. I’m just going through a block. Is what he’d said to his close friends and colleagues. But it wasn’t that…not quite. The real reason he couldn’t paint was simple, yet great. Do my paintings mean anything?  Was something he thought often. Does anyone understand my work? But he could not find a simple answer. This crippling doubt seemed to sap away any inspiration, the ideas he’d had just didn’t come anymore. Perhaps it’s time I retire. He thought with a sigh. Could he really just stop painting? He remembered something his art professor once told him years ago.

“Francesco, why are you here?” his professor asked him one evening after everyone else had left the studio.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking puzzled.

“Why do you create…what gives your work purpose?”

Francesco thought for a moment, unsure.

“For other’s enjoyment, I guess.” His professor cocked his head to the side.

“So if no one enjoys your work, you’ll stop painting?” He scratched the back of his neck, still puzzled.

“I paint because it gives me a reason to continue…that’s what gives my work purpose.”

A purpose. Francesco thought. “A purpose!” he whispered, glancing at the clutter of newspapers spread at his feet. One headline caught his eyes:
“Man dives from pier to save drowning child.” Featuring a photo of a soaking wet, middle-aged man who looked strangely familiar. Seeing this, Francesco turned his attention to the canvas and started mixing his paints. It seemed like he was painting for days before he finally stepped backwards to gaze at the freshly painted work. It was a woman, why the newspaper inspired him to paint her Francesco had no idea. She was elderly though she hadn’t lost her beauty, and there was something familiar in her eyes.

“You are Claudia.” Francesco said, feeling suddenly light as a feather, and something within him seemed to tug at the strings of his heart: he had found a new muse…a new purpose.