hermit's thatch

Birds are flying southward. At twilight their magnificent companies appear suddenly in the sky, flying in the typical “V” shape, some precise, some a little scraggly. And some, in imitation of typography, change the font by adding a little serif on the ends of the “V.”

In his Parabola interview, Fr. Dunstan Morrissey says that “one has to be naturally extroverted” to cope with solitude, because solitude is embraced on behalf of everyone. Other professed or religious solitaries, East and West, have said the equivalent. Given the classic definition of extroversion as self-identity by external objects, this statement would confirm these solitaries’ need to reconcile themselves to external realities — in this case, not abandoning the world and “everyone” — before embarking or succeeding in solitude. But the classic introvert, who defines self-identity by internal objects, would point to life circumstances as sufficient reason for pursuing solitude, and perhaps not even notice “everyone.”

The mother black bear and three cubs (described in May entries) returned. The mother was at first not recognizable, having lost a good fifty pounds. The cubs, on the other hand, have doubled their weight and size, and are eating, not nursing. They found full bird feeders, of course, and ate heartily, though it hardly seems much fare for such a large quartet.

(It is incredible to think that some states of the US permit these creatures to be hunted down and killed. One is pressed to distinguish between one mammal and another. …

The heavy rains have created a couple of small waterfalls down the road, spontaneous and delicate, to last only as long as the land drains the abundant waters. In many households, this sound –artificially generated by a little electric pump — masks obnoxious noises as “white noise.” But here, at twilight, there are no human sounds, and nature offers a gift. To paraphrase the old question: If water falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Oh, yes. The whole universe is making this beautiful sound — but we must be “here” in order to hear it.

Mencius identifies three types of people: 1) those who seek out the unusual and live for fame and posterity, 2) those who want to live with integrity but who give up when things are difficult, and 3) those who consciously live in harmony with the universal order, whose lives remain unknown to the world and unnoticed by society. Of the three types, says Mencius, only the wise can pursue the third.

Two anecdotes from the historian Szma Ch’ien about Confucius:

1. A father and son were ploughing a field when Confucius passed by with his disciples. A disciple went to ask for directions, introducing himself as a follower of Confucius. They said to him, “Rather than follow one who avoids certain people, why not follow someone who avoids society altogether.”
2. Separated from Confucius one day, a disciple stopped an old man and asked him if he had seen the Master. The old man replied, “Master? You mean someone who does not work with his arms and legs and cannot tell one grain from another?” The disciple later related this exchange to Confucius, who said, “That man must have been a retired philosopher.”

Posture, the angle of light, intermittent shadows from a block of wall or a window, a redolent scent, an abrupt sound, a profound relaxation and lack of anticipation — all these things may plunge consciousness into a reverie that is so irresistibly familiar that one does not know where one is, for that moment, anyway. However familiar the moment, achingly so, we grasp at the evanescence of time and memory. The moment, like all moments, is fast gone, but leaves a lingering sense of mystery. The mind contrives the continuity of time and space that we take for granted. This moment, this space. Next moment, this space. And so forth. But once in a while, that continuity breaks down, like a veil, though it is too unexpected for us to appreciate. In that moment, the solitude that dogs us dissolves, and the connection of moment to moment — time — reaches beyond this space and that space. For a moment, we sense that everything is one.

A weed is a plant that is not wanted, as gardeners say. But weeds tell gardeners a great deal about the condition of the soil, and a bed of “weeds” often deflects insects otherwise eager for the garden proper. Weeds are not wanted but they beg to serve. In our locale, the inauspiciously-named beggar tick is a common weed, a scrawny plant with small white-petaled flowers and a yellow center. And the beggar tick is beloved by butterflies of all sorts. The field guide says beggar tick habitat includes “disturbed” ground, so we humans invite them as weeds after all. May the beggar ticks stay, hailed as companion flowers and bringers of butterflies.

Balancing an offense to the good cannot be achieved by human contrivance because offense itself is a human contrivance. We “take” offense. We “give” offense. And we “take” vengeance, or rather “give” it — but we cannot “take” justice. Justice and vengeance are relative, just as balance is.

It would be better to learn balance from nature, which is a cycle, than from human beings, who live and think linearly — and reach dead ends from doing so. It would be better to refrain from desire, from the desire to make everything perfect — which is the desire behind vengeance but also behind most people’s notion of justice.

Refraining from desire, we would look for the cause behind everything, and finding a cause we would remove from ourselves the sense of offense. We would not “act” and “react.” We would see only now, this moment, and only seek to understand why this moment is what it is, how it came to be, what it will become, and what we want to be when it passes. There would no longer be injustice or vengeance in our eyes, our minds, our hearts. We could let go, a process perhaps best undergone in solitude. Only then would we be ready to see justice as a certain equanimity in all beings.

What is the difference between justice and vengeance? Society goes round in circles trying to distinguish the two because both justice and vengeance presume a human — and therefore artificial or contrived — solution to an offense. And to be “offended” is very human.

Justice is defined as conformity to the good in light of an offense to the good. But vengeance is punishment in retaliation for an offense. So if justice is not to become the same as vengeance, it cannot punish. This has enormous impact on the way society has structured itself for law, crime, punishment, rehabilitation, and, of course, war and ethics.