A Visit With You
This morning my mind has gone a wandering. I am in no hurry to hem my ideas and smock my sentences. I want to think for a while about what has made its presence felt again, death. Again, I recall John Donne's meditation. online-literature.com/donne/409/
Meditation XVII
XVII. MEDITATION.
PERCHANCE he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another.
He makes allowance for my macabre thoughts. These very thoughts put me in touch with reality. The solidity of reality is painful and lovely. I gently touch it as though it were a dandelion. Puff! it's gone. I sit down on the grass and listen for its voice to wash up on shore. Today I'm in no hurry to leave the picnic here. My friend has time to talk, laugh, cry and see a swan passing.
Hand sewing slows down my feet. I'm one who scurries. Jittery like a hummingbird I flitter. I flutter until stopped by a fragile web of thought. I am happily anxious today because our visit is near. My questions are many and few. Today is another day I wish to touch eternity and wonder at its existence. http://crystalinks.com
Meditation XVII
XVII. MEDITATION.
PERCHANCE he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another.
He makes allowance for my macabre thoughts. These very thoughts put me in touch with reality. The solidity of reality is painful and lovely. I gently touch it as though it were a dandelion. Puff! it's gone. I sit down on the grass and listen for its voice to wash up on shore. Today I'm in no hurry to leave the picnic here. My friend has time to talk, laugh, cry and see a swan passing.
Hand sewing slows down my feet. I'm one who scurries. Jittery like a hummingbird I flitter. I flutter until stopped by a fragile web of thought. I am happily anxious today because our visit is near. My questions are many and few. Today is another day I wish to touch eternity and wonder at its existence. http://crystalinks.com
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