From “The
Human Condition: A User’s Manual,” by Arnold Kunst
24 December
22, 2017
Christmas
is, outwardly at least, a season of happiness and warmth, of joy and abundance,
of Jingle Bells and Silent Nights. But not very far below the surface lurks a
distinct, abiding sense of malaise. Always we’re consumed by … a something. We
may not be able to identify it effectively, but it’s there for sure, as
evidenced by the ever-tapping toe, the incessant drumming fingers. It’s as if
all the gifts in the world, destined to sink below the surface of some
bottomless abyss, would never even register. There is something in all of us of
the alcoholic for whom 20 cases of whiskey will never slake.
Nature
isn’t like that. Seen small, take your dog for a walk and he’ll happily show
you: there are too many fire hydrants that need meticulous sniffing, too many
bushes that need minute irrigating. Seen large, stars are content to just be
there, as the poet says singing the music of the spheres.
In this
serason you and I are sure to be tempted to stomp our feet at the microwave and
blurt out, “Hurry up – I haven’t got all minute!” The trouble is, when we do that
we will, of necessity, forget that tranquility and delight are as much out
heritage as it is of your dog, or my stars.
Peace, my
friend!
No comments:
Post a Comment