March. Eastern USA. Variable weather conditions. Sometimes warm and sunny; other times, snowy, cold, downright dangerous. And regardless of what the meteorologists tell their audiences, all variations are relatively unpredictable. Hit and miss, at best. Might as well just call some psychic hotline for the weather.
Well, that’s not completely true, of course. Sometimes the forecasters actually forecast. In either instance of not getting “it” right or getting “it” right, all of us are stuck in one condition: Waiting for the approaching weather.
Waiting is a human condition. For some, it is a matter of anxiety. For others, hope. For still others, a mixed bag. What is it for you? Here’s a recommendation—not that you need advice, given your current state of wisdom.
Like a trip there’s more than just point A, the point of departure, and point B, the destination. The journey is, to use Parmenidean logic and Zeno’s paradoxes, infinitely divisible: Fractions of fractions of fractions. Half way there, half of that, half again, and so on. Certainly, we know that despite the Eleatic philosopher’s reasoning, we actually do end up at point B; the coming weather—however unpredictable—eventually arrives. The late spring storm comes, trees fall, and the power lines break. We walk in spring snow from new points A to points B.
You are always between storms or in storms. Apparently, it’s a human thing to heighten emotion just before and at the beginning of a storm. And then, we settle in. We deal with the storms that engulf us. So, why all the fuss at a storm’s approach? True, we usually don’t sustain an emotional high or low very long, but is there no way to focus on the moment as being special, regardless of the future?
Any storm—meteorological, political, social, or personal—is just like any fraction. It’s part way to a new destination. Half a step, half that, and half again. Each half a new destination, and the joy of focusing on the half distances is that there’s a focus on less. When we have less on which to focus, we have more focus on less if we imagine living in an Eleatic world without motion.
Experiment: Look across the room where you now sit. Imagine taking the walk to the other side. Imagine between steps you halt at a fraction of a step. Then, think fraction of that, and of that and of that. There you are in the moment, on the way to the other side of the room, yet somehow stopped. Time between the storms becomes a frozen space; place becomes the focus rather than the time, the period, of waiting. With you in place, a distant storm, a distant worry becomes irrelevant. You have in where you are at the moment a paradox that works to your advantage. You move in time toward the approaching storm—or illness or loss or tragedy—but you stay in space, ever smaller space, focusing intently on making that place the best it can be, one fortified, one prepared. The distant other side of the room is paradoxically reachable and unreachable. You have made a fortress against the vicissitudes to come. Even the onset of a storm is in a place infinitely divided.
Worried about the future? Think place, not time.
Strange experiment, isn’t it? Just giving you something to think about. You will reject the outcome as paradoxical, of course, because storms do approach and arrive. But when storms approach, think of those fractions of fractions, of place infinitely small. Big storms won’t fit in little places.
Well, that’s not completely true, of course. Sometimes the forecasters actually forecast. In either instance of not getting “it” right or getting “it” right, all of us are stuck in one condition: Waiting for the approaching weather.
Waiting is a human condition. For some, it is a matter of anxiety. For others, hope. For still others, a mixed bag. What is it for you? Here’s a recommendation—not that you need advice, given your current state of wisdom.
Like a trip there’s more than just point A, the point of departure, and point B, the destination. The journey is, to use Parmenidean logic and Zeno’s paradoxes, infinitely divisible: Fractions of fractions of fractions. Half way there, half of that, half again, and so on. Certainly, we know that despite the Eleatic philosopher’s reasoning, we actually do end up at point B; the coming weather—however unpredictable—eventually arrives. The late spring storm comes, trees fall, and the power lines break. We walk in spring snow from new points A to points B.
You are always between storms or in storms. Apparently, it’s a human thing to heighten emotion just before and at the beginning of a storm. And then, we settle in. We deal with the storms that engulf us. So, why all the fuss at a storm’s approach? True, we usually don’t sustain an emotional high or low very long, but is there no way to focus on the moment as being special, regardless of the future?
Any storm—meteorological, political, social, or personal—is just like any fraction. It’s part way to a new destination. Half a step, half that, and half again. Each half a new destination, and the joy of focusing on the half distances is that there’s a focus on less. When we have less on which to focus, we have more focus on less if we imagine living in an Eleatic world without motion.
Experiment: Look across the room where you now sit. Imagine taking the walk to the other side. Imagine between steps you halt at a fraction of a step. Then, think fraction of that, and of that and of that. There you are in the moment, on the way to the other side of the room, yet somehow stopped. Time between the storms becomes a frozen space; place becomes the focus rather than the time, the period, of waiting. With you in place, a distant storm, a distant worry becomes irrelevant. You have in where you are at the moment a paradox that works to your advantage. You move in time toward the approaching storm—or illness or loss or tragedy—but you stay in space, ever smaller space, focusing intently on making that place the best it can be, one fortified, one prepared. The distant other side of the room is paradoxically reachable and unreachable. You have made a fortress against the vicissitudes to come. Even the onset of a storm is in a place infinitely divided.
Worried about the future? Think place, not time.
Strange experiment, isn’t it? Just giving you something to think about. You will reject the outcome as paradoxical, of course, because storms do approach and arrive. But when storms approach, think of those fractions of fractions, of place infinitely small. Big storms won’t fit in little places.
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