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.
DW Myatt
(One Day One Third of August)