The Inconsolable Longing

C. S. Lewis speaks of something which, in German, is called Sehnsucht. He translates that as the inconsolable longing. It is a wish, says Wikipdeia, for we know not what. But we know not what, don't we? And it hurts very deeply, doesn't it?

I want what I cannot on this earth have. I want to be free and brave and bold and happy, all the things not really available on this world.

Lewis takes that a step farther. He argues, quite sensibly, I think, that we would not have such a feeling if it were not possible that such a feeling could not somehow, someday, be assuagued. We live and love today, in this world, under these circumstances. Yet we hope there is more. But more than hope; we know it is there.

That is why we so often feel sad. We have that knowledge that things ought to be better. We know that there has to be a somewhere where things are as they should be. We sense it; we feel it; we are, by a very taut cord, attached to it. It is there. It has Being.

And we are detached from it as long as we live on this world. Therein lies the pain, the yearning; the inconsolable longing. We know that it is possible, indeed, we know that it is likely (if we know anything at all) and true. We know that things are not as they should be. We know that someday we will, if we wish it yet only because we need it, and nothing more, be there with it. Things will be as they should be in the end.