Plague Journal, Winter Rumination
Winter is a season for contemplation. Time spent before a fireplace, is time well spent. Single digit cold bewitches the mind, compelling a still spirit. Focus is demanded by the elements of a near zero day. A footfall is announced by a sharp note of compacted ice, exposed skin serrated by a chill wind. Knowledge is immediate, intuitive that survival depends upon resistance to the elements, upon preparation.
And so it is with the rest of life. Survival, that gold standard, depends upon measured consideration of our capabilities, and upon luck. Be improvident, foolhardy, to miscalculate our true needs as a vulnerable human, — you lose, a swift end to our conscious presence here. How long would one last without proper shelter, or a warm coat? No matter the preparation, survival may come down to a matter of fortune, luck.
Everything that lives, dies. I do not easily think about my expiration date. It is difficult to imagine there was a time, when I was not here. There was such a time, and there will be a time, a continued arc of time when my conscious presence is no longer. A major illness contracted who knows when, where, or how — possibly could be my end. Or a heart attack, in circumstances removed from proper medical care. Despite my best efforts, it may come down to dumb luck, or I should say, a dearth of good fortune. Preparation and a good measure of luck…
As soon as the early spring thaw, should I not erect an altar to Fortuna, the old Roman goddess of luck? According to Boethius she remained popular throughout the late middle ages into the Renaissance.
These photos were taken over the past two days of bitter cold. I walked in deep snow around the Fabyan Japanese Tea Garden, near the Fox river. The old Oaks spectacular, bejeweled with ice, seemed to contemplate me. The Moon bridge, waterfall and pond were frost-bound, yet moving in my mind. Then I was delighted by a flock of robins congregating in our flowering crabapple tree. They appeared well fed, a testimony to their adaptation to a severe winter environment. Finally, a photo of a sunset behind a frozen sky while crossing the bridge over the Fox River.
2 thoughts on “Plague Journal, Winter Rumination”
I often wonder about the health and longevity of myself, my family and friends. Our genetic mix is like a roadmap of personal existence sprinkled with a good dose of providence. Along the way we lose many with whom we are familiar, icons of our youth. Some leave from old age, while others depart because they are predisposed to do so, unaware of a defective gene that causes death at an early age. I often think of John Ritter, born in 1948, dying at the age of 55 from a defective heart valve or George Gershwin who, at the age of 38, succumbed to brain cancer. Gone well before my current age of 69. What did I do to deserve living past these two (or the hundreds of thousands of other talented members of our species who passed away well before their 69th birthday)?
We could drive ourselves to distraction pondering the questions to which there are no answers. My turn could appear prior to reaching the end of this response, expiring as I type away at this computer or perhaps a moment after I press “post comment” or, then again, not for another 30 years. As the old saying goes, “Time Will Tell” and it always does.
“questions to which there are no answers, and “the trilling wire in the blood, sings beneath inveterate scars” (T. S. Eliot) keeps us oriented, on course to completion of our journey.