For a few years now I have regularly looked, with anticipation, for a new post on a blog titled First Known When Lost. The latest one is no disappointment:
I often feel that I have spent most of my life sleepwalking or daydreaming. Asleep at the switch. Nearly everything has escaped me. But each moment offers the possibility of redemption: a new opportunity to be awake and to be present. “Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.”
Fortunately for us, the beautiful particulars of the World are boundlessly and endlessly merciful. Every day, without fail, they gently shake us by the shoulders and whisper in our ear: “Wake up! Look over here. Listen to this.” Not in so many words, of course. The World is wordless. Yet it is not reticent. Nor is it impassive. Hence, immanence.
It always takes me a while to get through it all because I go off to every link, like this one to immanence:
On a late afternoon this past week I walked between two meadows. The meadow on my left, the parade ground of a former army post, was open and expansive. It has been mown recently, and the winter rains have turned it deep green. On my right, a broad field of brown and gray wild grasses sloped down to the bluffs above Puget Sound.
The afternoon was windless and quiet. The declining sun was hidden behind a flat layer of motionless grey clouds out over the Sound, stretching away to the Olympic Mountains in the west. Throughout my walk, my eyes kept returning to a glowing patch of pale yellow in the center of the cloud blanket, above, and dimly reflected in, the dark water below.
As I gazed at the patch yet again, I suddenly heard behind and above me a tiny creaking of wings. A dozen or so sparrows soon flew over me with the sound of a soft rush of wind. And those lovely creaking wings. I lost sight of the sparrows as they disappeared into the woods up ahead.
What does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,
No man, woman, or child alive could please
Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh
Because I sit and frame an epitaph —
‘Here lies all that no one loved of him
And that loved no one.’ Then in a trice that whim
Has wearied. But, though I am like a river
At fall of evening while it seems that never
Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,
This heart, some fraction of me, happily
Floats through the window even now to a tree
Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale,
Not like a pewit that returns to wail
For something it has lost, but like a dove
That slants unswerving to its home and love.
There I find my rest, and through the dusk air
Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.
The entry always has some interesting art interspersed throughout as well.
It feels like fresh air to me.