3-19-2010 Spring is back. Funny how our Winter penance can so easily and so suddenly recede in the tide of the years turning. What were we so sorry for? What Summer crimes of indifference or indulgence led us to believe that the sun would abandon us? That it would throw up its hands at a hopeless cause, for once and forever (only once would be necessary) sink beyond its solstice and never return. But it is rising again, its faith in us renewed, consenting to one more year of risk. Chances for love, peace, freedom.
There is a time in life when youthful spring naivete passes into a summer of early adult argument. A time when the awe and wonder at the raw block of the world gives way to the artist's desire to give it shape. To discard from life what seems unnecessary, what interrupts the ideal curves of the lives we might lead in earnest.
Isn't every Spring and following Summer a repetition of this? A synechdoche of the soul's passage into adulthood? Why else would we idle the early spring hours away in whatever patches of sunlit grass the day presents us? By June we will remember our work, the sun's warmth will have lost its novelty, and all the arguments over our pastimes' vintage will be in full swing.
And what arguments, what overstepping statements or wines drank to excess will fill our Rosary this year? Regrets to be fingered in the long dark of our next wintering cloister.
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everywhere i look, i can find metaphorical parallels for whatever am looking for. just because i find that some outside symbol fits me perfectly... why is that? is it for any reason? is the reflection of my life in the seasons or in the phases of the moon a sign of a connection or a oneness between me and it, or am i some specially designed stranger with a talent for seeing his own reflection wherever he looks.. yes?
ReplyDeleteBoth maybe? Neither? Is power lent to the metaphor by our experience or is our experience only felt as powerful when filtered through the metaphor?
ReplyDeleteIn my experience these antipodes are flat and underwhelming on their own. The real heart of a rich inner life is the middle ground, the field where they play, the inextricable and ever-shifting gradient of signifier and signified.
Of course we all forget this too easily and force the world into awkward categories. I think that we are required to in order to function in the world with its jobs and its friends and its hazards.