Plague Journal, Only The Dance
Yesterday I walked in the woods. My last attempt to enter Braeburn Marsh I was met with a phalanx of mosquitoes. Outnumbered my determination crumbled, I hastily returned to the house. This summer day I walked along the edge of the marsh paying attention, quietly absorbing the late summer wild flowers. Many things that are so splendid that a very skilled writer cannot adequately convey the richness of shape, of texture, and of color that enraptures the eye. Also memory quickly fades does it not? Therefore a camera is a welcome means to fix for a while longer, a state-of-being which is actually passing as it is observed.
I captured these photos for your and my, extended enjoyment. Summer does not last. The seasons by definition are the labels by which we point to change, the effect upon life caused by the tilt of the earth’s axis nearer, and then away from the great energy source of the sun. It is a great dance is it not? Everything is in motion. I like these words penned by T. S. Eliot:
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
— excerpt, Burnt Norton by T. S. Eliot stanza II
