Thursday, March 5, 2009
Calm down, you idiot.
Sometimes I have to speak harshly to myself or I just won't listen.
A dear friend of mine, a philosophy professor, believed (as others have) that we're bits of the universe conscious of itself. We have a gift, a gift of the senses and a sense of beauty. A transitory gift.
Where to spend this time and space? Sure, there are some worries one will never shake. Fears that will never shed. Geoff's didn't. He killed himself a few years ago. Doesn't mean his philosophy was wrong; he had a dark, dark night. Say, instead, a tree branch had fallen on his head, just enough to knock him out that night, he'd still be around to make fun of me today.
My classes at the Huntington resumed, and we had lessons in the Chinese Garden. Met a lovely man, the former student of a master gardener. This gentleman came all the way from China to prune the trees. He'd cup the tree, bend, crouch, stare, step back, consider. Next he'd select a branch, bend it, almost talk to it. Then, only then, would he decide. And sometimes the decision was to do nothing.
"How do you like it here?" I asked.
"It's almost spring," he said.