The first snow of the year arrived here in the North Country. To our south and west come reports of 7 to 10 inches. But here it was just a dusting, a foretaste of the feast to come.
There are seasons to a year and seasons to a life. Each have their own beauties and pains, their own blessings and curses. Live long enough I suppose, and you will learn to appreciate and fear each after it own fashion.
My own bifurcated existence continues to keep me on my toes. By day (and some evenings) I am immersed in a world of technology. I troubleshoot computers, iPhones and iPads for a living (for two livings actually, since I have two jobs). It is a mechanical/concrete life of device triage and repair and tracking down software and system anomalies.
By night (most nights) I live in a world of poetry and nature and language and jazz.
It is a day divided: betwixt and between brain hemispheres and categories of time (the horizontal existence of chronos, and the vertical existence of kairos).
All human life in the end can be described by this dance between chronos and kairos. Paradoxical tensions give birth to human creativity. Our souls like the strings of a guitar it seems are tuned and played by the process of this tension.
Here is a poem by Robert Bly on the dialectical nature of time and being human.
Listening with a pencil and my ear, these are the lines I marked:
Some say we are living at the end of time,But I believe a thousand pagan ministersWill arrive tomorrow to baptize the wind.
All poets in the end are, I suspect, mystics at heart. And all poetry, indeed all art, is born in thosekairotic moments when the infinite breaks into the mundane. When the created is kissed by the Creator.
Art at its best reminds us that we are not merely finite creatures struggling beneath the crushing weight of chronos. We were created imago dei. We have eyes to see the infinite and hearts that can dance and sing along to the music of heaven.