“The sensibilities of the hunter and the poet…” (Consilience – The Arts and Their Interpretation, page 237. Knopf)
I did feel a bit like I was hunting and that I had been successful. The universe, that vague thing we allude to when we want to convey the sense of a unifying and pervasive force, can surprise you. I’d been musing on the fact that trying to rush things leads to bad results. Haste makes waste, you know the old cliché.
Some trite things are true. This itself is a trite and true observation and I’m not trying to wow anyone with it. It’s just sort of necessary to get to my point.
There’s a Latin phrase: Memento Mori. It was something said to victorious Roman soldiers so that they would remember their mortality and not get overconfident. At least that’s how I recall the thing, and I can’t currently be bothered to look it up, because its Christmas day and I have work in the morning.
I went out for a stroll and fell into a bit of a reverie in the chill December air. I was thinking ‘you know there could have been so much that I could have already done in terms of a completed work.’ Why hadn’t I? Wasn’t it because I didn’t hustle enough?
It was because I hustled too much. I’d missed the boon of impetus that Mercury delivers to the attentive. I’d heard it as a whisper and instead of listening more closely I’d attempted to shout back the rumor for confirmation.
Or maybe this is just me losing my point which is that it is very uncanny. It is very uncanny when the universe, that vague thing we allude to when we want to convey the sense of a unifying and pervasive force, puts a dead bunny on the path of your Yule Tide walk. Just at the moment that you are thinking about haste and death.
There are those who dismiss most everything as a coincidence I have at least a dozen teasing things that argue otherwise.
I do not mean to be morbid during the holidays. I suppose I should dispel the funk of death by explaining my view of it. Yes, the poor dead hare is leaping no more but such is the fate of all the things under the sun and it is not a bad thing. It is not a lingering illness. The physical life animate on this sphere is a song worthy of singing. But should one wish to sing the same song forever?
That bunny now knows eternal rest, and in his dusty bed, I read a poem that told me life’s completion lies in going at the right pace.
What is the right pace? I am still trying to figure that out but I think that the answer to this riddle could be that there is no pace at all.
I may be straying into obscurantism but that is not my intent. My final guess is that you can only gain the proper pace by listening to the cadence.
What is the cadence?
Perhaps we all know, perhaps we all don’t, whatever the case I hope the new year finds you well.