Rain, Following Weeks of Warmful April Sun


Rain, following weeks of warmful April Sun; rain, and a colding northern breeze that makes us seek out again our pullover and gloves. And so I walk and walk beside a sea where incoming wind-assisted waves break upon such long-living rocks as place our fleeting lives in place.

There is thus no living way for me to make amends, to be other than I was. For the past – my past – is not even one broken shell upon some sandful shore; instead, it seems somehow now to belong to another time and space: some other planet orbiting some other star, perhaps, among the billions of one Galaxy living in this our causal Cosmos.

All I have are memories, of that other so very different life: bringing such feelings as sometimes bring new tears. And there are for me no words, no terms, no theories or ideas, to convey in any way the sadness of such suffering caused. For I am only one – only one – among so many, so very many, century after century, millennia merging to millennia; one among so many who has and have through selfish desire, through adherence to some abstraction or some deceiving duty, caused and brought suffering to so many, including – and especially in its infortunity – to those who loved us and whom we should have loved in that way they so loved us.

Alas, there is no way to change that past; but perhaps a way to change what yet may be. A way to cease to cause or to contribute to suffering, and thus to redeem that promise of life, of human evolution, that lives, dwells, within us; that has lived, that has dwelt, within us, for well over a thousand years given the so many numinous creations and contributions – the so many numinous works of art, literature, music, poetry, and living human examples – that culture and pathei-mathos has gifted and given to and for us.

The way, this so very simple way, is based upon one ineluctable, one numinous, truth: which is that there is not, and can never be, any justification, ethical or otherwise, for causing or for contributing to suffering; for causing or contributing to harming, injuring or killing any other human being; with the one, the singular, the only exception, being a personal one in the immediacy of the moment involving defence of one’s self, or of someone nearby dishonourably attacked.

Thus, all we need is to desist: to control the primitive within; to seek, to be, empathic – to feel as others feel; to develope such empathy, such sensitivity, such honour, until we have become quite different beings, far removed from the brutality, the lies, the deception, the excuses, the desires, the hubris, the un-numinous abstractions, that have so blighted both our present and our past and indeed now our planet.

So, this is all I have to offer now, in recompense: all, except, perhaps, the so beautiful sound of birdsong in English woods and fields in early May; or perhaps the sight of small cumulus clouds slowly passing beneath the sky of blue in Summer when Sun so warms us that we stop to wipe away the sweat upon our brow; or, perhaps, that so special scent of a meadow field in middle June after rain when Sun, re-emerging from passing stormful cloud, dries us and our so fragile land, and we are moved – so moved, so still, amid the country silence – that we lie down awhile beside the Hawthorn hedge to feel again this simple English paradise of field, farm, life, and burgeoning birth…

David Myatt

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