One morning last week, I couldn’t login to my work computer.
On the one hand, this was a total champagne problem. I was not in danger of losing my job, of physical violence, or of anything else truly disturbing.
But it almost sent me into a panic attack.
If I can’t login, I can’t do my work. Stuff will be happening without my knowledge, people will be asking for my help, and I can’t do anything about it.
I can’t write, I can’t edit. I’m a writer, I’m an editor.
I’m rendered useless.
My email was behind a firewall. So were my files. So was the internet (though I could have accessed that from my phone).
What was frustrating wasn’t so much any terrifying consequence of my lack of access. It was more the loss of control. If I’m locked out of my home, I can call a locksmith. But the walls of technology are a lot less climbable.
I wonder if there’s a spiritual equivalent of being unable to login. We long for access to truth, to a sense of order in the universe. And we can tell it’s there.
We just don’t have the password.
After about two hours, David from the IT Service Desk liberated my computer. He reassured me that the lockout wasn’t my fault: “Sometimes bad things happen to good people.” He was pleased when he saw me typing in a new long passphrase, instead of a puny password.
And I have access again.
Until the system goes down, until my computer dies, until I accidentally delete all the documents that populate my digital kingdom and that I’ve forgotten to back up.
For now, I can get in where I need to go.
My soul, though? That’s still pressed up against a sheet of colored glass, looking at the lights on the other side, wondering how to break through.