A Dispatch from the Surging Swell

A solitary consciousness, crying out from the surging swell, but using no words: this is the nature of the quiet desperation at the heart of human experience. Does the loneliness sneak up on you? Are you uncomfortably made aware, on the morning commute, of the unavoidable isolation of being conscious? It seems an irony befitting a race that sees its death approaching from earliest youth, like a mountain that anchors every landscape view, no matter where you stand.

But even if we couldn’t see death’s approach, would we do things any differently? It’s a legitimate question. I don’t know that I would watch any less or any more Netflix, or indulge any less or any more in the things I routinely indulge in (hello, Reese’s cups). Would I bother writing? Or is there something about that pale horse and its bony rider that compels me to document these ranging thoughts; to labor away, in the pre-dawn hours, at fiction and at memoiristic meditations on the poetry of Rilke? Probably, on some elemental level, there is something of the dread behind these efforts.

Yesterday I was driving home from my eldest son’s piano lesson, and the sunset caught the trees in such a way that the part of me that responds to art welled up of its own accord (the “of its own accord” part is necessary–it’s how I know I’m in the presence of great art). My first impulse was to take a picture, but I was driving, and I knew that my phone couldn’t capture the true essence of the sunset anyway. So then I thought about how often our first impulse in the presence of beauty is to try and capture it, and then I was hit with the sadness of our inability to do just that. Isn’t there just so much that we wish to do, but we can’t? Beauty can’t be bottled, and there aren’t enough Instagram filters to make an experience communicable to another person. There’s a tremendous sadness in this.

Rapid Blog, No. 1

Finding beauty in death–an autonomous grace suffusing the expiration that we face; movement being the thing–temporal movement, i.e. time, not physical–for death also comes to much that is still. Take trees, for example.

The morning light strikes many leaves but leaves yet many in shade. And the beauty seems buried somehow in the contrast, mystically–how a leaf has two sides: light and dark, silver and green, matte and glossy, lamentation and praise–each side equally beautiful. And this splendor in the trees is spread at the margins of every vista–a free, daily gift.

Lines of trees are the seams of the visible quotient of our lives–they hem in our narrative. Only a fool misses the significance of trees.