January Days

 

The cold earth slept below;

         Above the cold sky shone;

                And all around,

                With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow

The breath of night like death did flow

                Beneath the sinking moon.

(Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I wake up to the cold air - undeniably wintry in the 30s. Blankets on my bed keep me cosy all night, but getting out of those warm covers seems a daunting task. But! These are the Winter days so rare around these southern parts. We don't have caves of ice and fields of snow, but we sure do have a cold earth sleeping below the cold sky. In all Shelley's beautiful words there underneath is a dreaded feeling, like death on the breath of night. His life was tragic and in opposition to the beauty that life had to offer, yet somehow he was able to create such beauty through his words that can often trace in their sources back to the source of all, God. He may have rejected God in his own rebellious ideas yet I can't help but appreciate his talent and use of language. He may have seen some wintry night as dreadful and bitter, set out under the moon to visit. That may be how many people feel when it is bitterly cold and icy. When there seems to be no end to the darkened days. 

When the sun has shone these recent days, it hasn't warmed the land. The air still holds onto that icy blast from the north, and I delight in it. The difference of season, the utter relish of inspired cold that sets my mind to all the creative things. Poems pop into my head, words and ideas spring up like blooms shedding bulbs, and I seek to be outside with nature in this change of weather. Colder, much colder than usual. This kind of weather always splits me into two - one part of me wants to be outside on walks letting this cold sink into me as I explore and see the world with fresh eyes (once a summer zone now a winter wonder) letting my mind wander as my feet wander, and the other part of me wants to sit with a cup of coffee/tea donning a thick sweater to write novels and stories, poems, and discourses on the weather or stories related to my inspired state.

Every true artist does feel, consciously or unconsciously, that he is touching transcendental truths; that his images are shadows of things seen through the veil. In other words, the natural mystic does know that there is something there; something behind the clouds or within the trees; but he believes that the pursuit of beauty is the way to find it; that imagination is a sort of incantation that can call it up. 
(The Everlasting Man)

I read G.K. Chesterton's The Everlasting Man every morning with my coffee and warm porridge. I am getting close to finishing it now. A re-read of this was essential and I am enjoying it so much. He tells the story/history of all mankind through the lens of the Christian story, the ultimate Story. He reminds us that we don't know the details of prehistoric man, as they were pre-history. The myths and pagan ideas of early history all unfold, manifested in a worship of nature. The hopelessness of fallen civilizations from Troy to Carthage lead up to the strangest story in the world. Jesus was not just a teacher, for those who claim Christianity is like the other religions. Not the case. None of the other heads of religions like Buddha or Mohammed claimed to be God. Jesus does. He turns everything upside down in our world. He is either a lunatic, or God incarnate. It's the strangest story of all. All the old myths, new myths, fairytales, etc are not pagan, but Christian. As Chesterton writes, the world of Peter Pan doesn't belong to the world of Pan, but the world of Peter.

That is the paradox; everything that is merely approaching to that point is merely receding from it. Socrates, the wisest man, knows that he knows nothing. A lunatic may think he is omniscience, and a fool may talk as if he were omniscient. But Christ is in another sense omniscient if he not only knows, but knows that he knows...
This is where it was a fulfillment of the myths rather than of the philosophies; it is a journey with a goal and an object, like Jason going to find the Golden Fleece, or Hercules the golden apples of the Hesperides. The gold that he was seeking was death. The primary thing he was going to do was to die. 
(The Everlasting Man)

It all leads to purpose fulfilled, the story isn't an aimless wandering around. It is the embrace of ultimate sacrifice. What a joy - we get to be (undeservedly) part of this divine purpose.