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July 30, 2010
Born in Jersey City, New Jersey, Jim Bishop grew up to be a writer and a journalist who had some books (e.g. The Day Lincoln Was Shot, The day Christ Died) transformed into television films. He authored the quote above through which I start my thoughts. A minute ago is gone. This infinite segment of a time horizon impressed on the faded imprints of our memory could have been a fragment of a cherished event or a disdained recollection of an unpleasant moment. Still, it no longer is. No matter how much we try and desire or push to restore, the second a minute passes is an irreversible event. That moment, a fraction of a second, a figment of a time, a portion of a minute is suddenly so distant, so remote, and so vague. Indeed, nothing is as far as a minute ago. We stare at the mirror. We stare again. In posthaste we see the added weight, the extra wrinkle, the graying strand of hair. Those were not there before, we mutter. Ah, but that was a minute ago….
I recall a verse by William Blake: “To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour”. Then I pondered on the muses behind those words. I couldn’t find them. The only thing that came up is that this notion of time, this haunted
prosecutor against our own defenses, is simply overwhelming. For although we do not see it, we all feel it; not as a presence but as an absence, the absence of a tangible entity, the absence of a predictable direction. And as we do not see time except through small devices with gears or digital machines, we can only flow with its motion. As time moves, we move. As time leaves, we too shall go. And this brings me to the thoughts of summer – our present heat, the dried grass, the yard work, the sweaty skin, the stinky scent. It is a season, just like any other season, an intruder within the pseudo perennial cycles of our existence. Now you see it. Now it’s gone. And then we go back to the long days of a Midwestern chill. The circle starts anew. Winter is around the corner.
It was only a month ago when many of our kids finally finished school. Some just finished grade school. Some were done with the pesky teen-age life
of high school, now preparing a face for a new phase. And still some are finally over with college, on their way to the waiting game of the unemployed. No, they are not different kids. For many of us, it is the one and only child, the one who keeps us awake at nights while they drive around with friends and without a definite game plan. They are kids who are the embodiment of that distant minute whom we can never capture in the palm of our hands. They are part of a season. And so are we.
Seasons are a way to implement some discipline within the seemingly chaotic angles of life. Without seasons, life will be insane. Years will be boring.
Even in places where there is no winter, the subdued ambiance of a different season somewhat enlightens us. They are also there to let us know when we
have to add more garment or bare more skin. Nonetheless, it is amazing that despite the pattern of these seasons, in spite of our God given guides to
handle our lives, there are certain individuals who could not completely take advantage of life’s seasons. And the reason is because of inherent sacrifices
we all need to pass through in life; sacrifices that bring a painful scar, yet frequently end with a much awaited gladness. This is the reason why child labor is frowned upon. A child belongs to the season of learning and not to the forced populace of revenue earners. And this too is a reason why most people retire at an older age and not as grade school or adolescent kids. They have not yet accrued sufficient financial resources. They can still be productive. Seasons mark us with a definite emblem to help us move on. On the other side of the fence, the not so pretty faces of thoroughbreds are
now preparing for a day in a track. Life is like a race. It requires an unexpected amount of giving up and the same amount of giving in. This race is laden with bumps and dings from a gamut of restless drivers and even from our own nasty vices. The season of life lived in sacrifice is a segment of our season unconditionally given to anyone who love’s life, or to anyone whom we love. We will not forever be able to give unselfishly. So when the right season comes, we cannot afford to let it pass.
Nothing is as far as a minute ago. Nothing is as close as the years whose memories we lovingly recall. Nothing is as live as the tasks we embark on.
Nothing is as gone as that which is really gone. The distance of time and the seasons that surround it are the coves that surround us. We are within and not without time. We move within seasons as seasons pass as by. “Daddy”, my son said, “how do I know that I am growing?” He asked.
“Well”, I responded. “How do you know that you are asking me that question?” He just stared. No other questions were asked.
Once there was a girl who watched a cocoon hanging by the door of a shed. She wanted to witness something get out from it so she looked at it every day. One day, she too had to go out. So she left and played. When darkness came, she started to go home. First, she went to the shed where the cocoon is
hanging. She was shocked. The cocoon was gone. She cried. And while she started going, a butterfly followed behind her. With the distance of a moment embedded in the fleeting seasons of life, this reflection aspires to transport that desire of heightened awareness.
The only way to battle against our own mortality is when we increase the sense of our awareness. When time is viewed and enjoyed in its infinite aspect, the seasons are borne with greater significance. Nothing is as far away as a minute ago. Nothing is as late as the one that expired yesterday. And nothing I could say will ever capture the evasion of a minute gone.