"An Open Letter"

Dear Cynicism,

I am writing to tell you that I am leaving you. I am moving on. I am moving out of our one-bedroom apartment that has neither a sunny windowsill on which a mint plant can grow nor a sunny room in which imagination can be cultivated. The reasons are as follows: you smother innocence and beauty and emotion, and I find this to be oppressive. As such, I am moving on--severing ties--casting you aide. All the best to you. Godspeed.

You scoff, of course. You're always so quick to scoff. Truly, these castigations are not news to you, both because you revel in your smothering and because I have told you these things before. I may have substituted fennel in the place of mint and emotion in the place of imagination, but my sentiments were the same. I was moving on. Setting sail. Hopping ship to Tarshish. Leaving you. I began to tell my friends that I was trying to "transcend Cynicism." "Who says that?" you jeered, appropriately. No one should say that. No one ought to tell another that she is transcending anything. It is both too enlightened and too pretentious for another--for even me--to swallow.

Frankly, Cynicism, I scoffed as well. I will admit freely to you that I was skeptical of my capacity to shed my crunchy coating and become, at will, a person who has hopes and dreams and beliefs and passions. I was skeptical of my capacity to evaluate the religiously observant in a positive manner. I was especially skeptical of my capacity to experience emotion during worship.

More than all this, though, and I only tell you this because I will soon have left you forever, I think I was scared. I was scared that upon abandoning you, I would find myself doing the two-handed surrender while sweetly singing "I'm forgiven, because you were forsaken; I am accepted, you were condemned." If I left you, I might turn into one of "them." If I allowed myself to experience emotion during worship, I may just as soon be wearing a "Got Jesus?" t-shirt and believing that the dinosaurs fit on the ark because they were teenaged dinosaurs. How I feared believing in teenaged dinosaurs. And so I continued to cling to you for your protection.

I should make it clear, Cynicism, that you did play a role in my life for which I am glad. After meeting your eyes during a discussion of epistemology my freshman year, I knew you were the one for me. I knew I wanted you always at my side. I wanted to put you in my pocket and keep you there, and so I did. That day in freshman philosophy, Cynicism, I tucked you into the left pocket of my purple t-shirt and carried on with my day. Carried on with my life.

But now, Cynicism, I am taking you out of my pocket and I am moving out of our apartment and I am shutting the garden gate on you and I am moving on. It is true--both you and I know that it is true--that I will walk haltingly away and will sometimes fiddle with the latch on the gate. Sometimes, I will even invite you back up to the apartment for a nightcap and a spot of dialogue. Most times, I will continue to cross my arms obstinately during worship or prayer (God forbid we be singing "Blessed be the Name" or "How Great is Our God.") and direct close-lipped stares at my fellow worshipers so that they might truly see that I am not one of "them." Most times, although I have given you a side-hug and have told you "Goodbye Forever," I will forget that I have ever done this at all.

However, I hope for the good days. Now that you are gone, it is okay to hope for the good days and know that they are coming. Even though my leaving you has by no means been successful or sudden, I need to tell you that I am already finding that I do not delight in you so readily these days. Your presence does not make my eyes gleam or my mind burst with delirious self-righteousness as easily as it used to. I am sorry to tell you all of this so candidly, but it is true. And because it is true, I am happy.

This is goodbye, then. I don't want you to try to contact me. I have changed my phone number and I am wearing a hat and I am speaking in an accent and I do not want you to look for me. I do not want you to call. I do not want you to write. I do not want you to think of "us" as living in the subjunctive mood. There will never be an "us" again. And if you see me someday, Cynicism, and I am doing the two-handed surrender or singing "Blessed be the Name" (or God forbid, doing both at once), then I will have you know that perhaps transcending cynicism is possible.

It is, at least, my intention to try.

Goodbye forever,

Sara