No Clouds Above A Natural Silence
A wonderfully warm and Sunny day with no clouds to cover the joy-bringing-blue. The Sun was warm even as it ascended while I cycled, on my roadster, rural lanes totally devoid of traffic because of it being Sunday, early. So pleasing, this simple joy of an English morning in latish Summer when I – tired from long hours of work yesterday – leant against a fence to just-be in each slowly passing moment. Such peace, as if the meaning of life was at last not only known but felt, lived, as no human-made noise intrudes and one feels the strength, the giving, of the Sun; feels the growing that is in fields, trees, bush, hedge.
So much, so much so simply known and felt as warmth and the natural silence bring a sleepy calm and there is the brief sleep of lying in warming grass before one awakes to feel all living-life thus knowing human-caused suffering for the blight, the stupidity, that it is. To be – to let-be – is again my answer and so I slowly, so-slowly, returned to my dwelling where now, three hours later, I sit on the grass in the garden knowing-feeling my weakness of months, years, decades past.
So I am haunted, here and again, where – again – the Swallows gather as they gather at this time of year: chirping, chattering, to each other and preparing in a few weeks time, perhaps a month, to leave until the next Spring turns toward another Summer. Thus do they now skim the fields, catching, eating, their food as the cycle of natural life upwardly repeats and a cooling breeze dims a little of the humid heat here in a greening part of England spoilt only by the noise, the machinations, of Homo Hubris.
And yet I am no exception, having trodden many stages to perform so many rôles to so be a cause of suffering: learning, forgetting, learning, but addicted often despite intention to interfering, to blindly going where I had been so many times before. Such stupidity – such sanctimonious arrogant assumptions – negating again and again and again empathy, compassion, love. Too many words, then, even now: far too many too many times as the deluding self lived, arose, died, arose again, to mislead, each numinous allegory only one Sign of how to remember that which our selfish delusion bade us forget.
Thus am I left in Sun to shed such tears as might break me with no knowing of if – when – I will be stupid, arrogant, again. But now – now there returns the peace of silence and sitting in the warming Sun of a late but so English Summer.
(One Day One Third of August)
( Taken from Selected Letters, Part One )