Que Sera

“Que sera sera, whatever will be will be”, a song from childhood. Nice to embrace as one grows older, but in opposition to progressive capitalism .

It’s kind of a variant on “accept God’s will”, a mantra in some form of almost every religion. So obviously it has relevance to just about how everyone considers life, at least part of the time. Find the good, enjoy the moment, do what must be done, “Don’t worry, be happy” .

Of course we also have that old standby “carpe diem”. Seize the day, grab opportunities, define goals, change things you don’t like. There is no shame in failure, only in never trying. 

Two conflicting outlooks. Hegel might claim that of such opposites a synthesis could be formed. But that is wrong. Instead we fragment our times, finding some moments when one approach applies, others when the opposite is appropriate, a lot of situations when neither quite fits .

For me, the resolution has been that rigid dogmatism is useless in life. A person who never lifts a finger is frequently a useless drudge. A maniac who is always taking risks may destroy our community. So we end up back with another aphorism – “moderation, even in moderation” .

Lines and Shadows

Art instruction books often begin by stating “there are no lines in nature.” Which is obviously, annoyingly, both true and false. “Nature” may not have a horizon “line” drawn where earth meets sky, but people certainly perceive that line. As do their mechanical devices .

So beginners always start with lines. Kids outline flowers and houses in their first drawings. Stick figures, on the other hand, are abstract ideas of people like Mommy or Daddy with important bits – torso, limbs, and head – largely symbolic.

Shading is just as strange. Mostly we perceive shadows as darker shapes, but impressionists found them more real by adding colors .

The point of all this is that very little – even human basic perception – is quite as simple as it appears. This has been driven home lately by how much trouble computers have interpreting visual information like boxes in a pile .

Beyond that, things like lines and shadows require some concentrated imagination which is one of the reasons most of us like drawing and other visual arts. Not because it is “true” but because it is “fun” .

No lines in nature. An awful lot in our heads .

Conventional

I consider myself fortunate to have led a fairly conventional life. By that, meaning to have fit in, done well enough, a little ecstasy, not too much heartbreak. Accepting of most of the rules and tradition of society .

Conventional connotates the core of a civilization, even in its various groups. What the conventional peasants do, what the conventional rulers might direct. The basic conservative principle that keeps tribes from falling apart, and which helps individuals support each other to face the world .

Lately, conventional has also come to mean fashionably correct within a given cult. Conventional leftists, apparently, are all snowflakes who think the world should be cotton candy sweet. Conventional right, on the other hand, believe bitter harshness is the only survival skill in a hostile universe .

The center that I thought I inhabited has apparently melted away. It’s too boring for the young and restless, too naive for the old and cynical. Nobody wants to just try to improve things little by little – time to tear it all up and start over .

Perhaps the fringe fanatics are right. I think not, but none of them (nor anybody else) cares what I think. So I sit in my conventional backyard and, as Voltaire would say, concentrate on growing my equivalent of vegetables .

Hot Shower

This morning I pulled myself from my comfortable clean insect-free bed. Heated instant coffee in a microwave, drank it gratefully in a soft chair as I watched birds fly against a blue sky behind budding maple branches. Wrote in a journal with a ball-point pen, checked news on the internet. Woke up with a hot shower, shave, brushing teeth. Put on warm clothes, brought in the emptied trash cans and newspaper … and on and on .

Every one of these things would seem miraculous to most humans living over a hundred years ago. Many are still unavailable to many people today. All taken for granted by me .

Electricity! Water! Safety! But you can complete the endless list without help.

A sad note is that we rarely notice how wonderful all this is. From the top down, everyone loves to complain. Our leaders scream that we live in a hell hole surrounded by horrible aliens. Neighbors worry that their house is too old and small, their yards too filled with dust, perhaps their children less than perfect. Ignore the wonderful, concentrate on whatever bothers us (this moment).

I’ve always been a little too complacent and content, more so now that I am elder and retired. I’m amazed that the sun rises, electricity works, and that I am so much alive. And that hot morning shower remains a treat worthy of gods – which in some ways we are .

Ghosts

As I stroll through this cold, wet spring, I notice wild garlic sprouting, roadside daffodils in bloom, lawns greening, and trees laden with buds. But amidst all this rebirth, I am surrounded by ghosts .

Oh, not so much people, although there are a few of those, some dead, some merely gone away, others changed. I here speak of the ghosts of things and situations passed – dead trees removed, houses decayed or rebuilt, shorelines mutated, and on and on. I remember also who I was those other times, a person with sharper attributes and stronger drives, inhabiting a truly different world. Those ancient images overlay all that I actually experience now, and they sometimes haunt me .

Enchantment remains, the moments are wonderful. The memories are simply depth. This spring is a lovely time, the universe is infinitely, fractally magnificent. And yet …

The actual recollections are quite vivid, and on occasion it feels like that world was better, once upon a time, not so long ago. It even occasionally feels wrong to replace the old visions with fresh overlays .

Then I snap out of it, enjoy the sunshine breeze, and glory in simply and happily existing well. Ghosts and all .

Dirt of Ages

After a great tragedy, Notre-Dame cathedral has been restored. Cleaned, polished, “better than ever”. Yet, somehow, the shiny new stones and woodwork have lost their aura of magic. The “dirt of ages” is missing, and more than mere grime has vanished .

There was a feeling – as there often is in older places – of the weight of time. The countless years of visitors and worshipers weighed on the soul. True, most tourists neglected to know that the place had been vandalized during the revolution and reimagined by Violet Le Duc. But it was dignified, solemn, and quite different from a magnificent modern edifice.

This is an era that prizes only the new, even as it restlessly searches for meaning and roots – which it destroys every day in the name of progress. Sometimes with reason. A new church is far more comfortable than the chilly, dark, rigid old structures .

Mostly, I’m just as caught up in shiny new as anyone else. More than many, however, I try to take time to venerate the old, respect the past, be awed by the ancient. Like many experiences, that mood is enhanced by odd details, including wear, nicks, and dirt. It seems more real, truly authentic .

Glad I got to visit Notre Dame before Mr Clean arrived .