On a whim…

Life without whimsy is not much of a life at all; without it, a walk in the dark is no laughing matter.

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Marking Time

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On the edge of autumn, shadows, long in tooth, take hostage our memories of days well past. Like those with aging minds, we too are captured by moments long gone. Our relentless march to the ticking of the clock is changed. Where we once moved forward we march in place; marking time to a familiar rhythm but to an altered scene.

We are made strangely existential, we would be horologists. But in this season our now has become “then”. Though we speak of spending time we discover, in this pause, that much of it has already been spent. Our minds once conjured a fantasy regarding time. We would measure it, we would divide it, we would conquer it to believe our end were only a distant future. But…

But now we learn: in this season of shortening days, our mortality is ever near. Now we hear: “Take no thought of the morrow, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Now we know: Our memories are not relics to lament but guideposts to reclaim what matters.

The future is no more known to us than to an infant. Unlike the infant whose memories are unformed, we are captured by the long shadows that surround us. We are visited by the past. Memories bear witness to loss and to hope. Love lost is at least a love once with us. Where there once was love there may yet be love again. This recollection must be shared; Doing so is an epiphany for many. Indeed, though captured by memories we are not condemned to isolation. We tell our story. preach the sermon of our lives, we sing the melody of our loves.

On the edge of autumn, shadows, long in tooth, take hostage our memories of days well past. In them, together, we find what we might otherwise miss in our rush toward an unknown and unknowable future.

Written by David Wilkerson

16 September 2022 at 9:46 am

Posted in evolution, metaphysics

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Our Rest

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Crisp air, an autum breeze

Coverlet drawn to the chin.

A nap

Cool amongst dead leaves.

Our rest ends the summer days.

Written by David Wilkerson

6 March 2008 at 11:51 pm

Posted in metaphysics, poem

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