I was thinking as I rode home the other night about all the little treasures one has in his or her life, about the connections and events, and even the traditions that somehow or another mean the world to a person. They are usually not particularly significant, as far as any "historical significance" is concerned. They are quiet things. A special look, one's garden, strange and hazy memories from a childhood - these make one's whole life. But when these are analyzed outside of their context they don't seem to add up to much.
It seems that life is so fragile, so fraught with the potential for mis-communion, that we are given to cherish with such zealousness the little bit of harmony that we can find. Many unconscious hours go into a few minutes of peace.
It is important to realize that those around us are experiencing the same thing. It is very easy to get bored quickly with the stories and fascinations of others. They seem so blasé , trite even, or just irrelevant. We forget that for the other, these little trivialities might very well be the web that binds their entire life to some sense of meaning. We forget how fragile our significances, mocking others for such insignificance.
Some sense of meaning, some odd appropriation of truth - these things are hard to come by! I am here not talking about the truth of intellectual assent. Rather, it is the truth of quiet tradition, of unspoken action, the truth of instinct in its best and most holy incarnation, it is these that our lives are actually built around. Quite exhausted, however, by our own tenuous footing, we lack the energy and insight to see those little hovels of meaning (for surely they are hovels, though we meant to build towers) in which our neighbors live.
No comments:
Post a Comment