The damp dusk chilled to bone.
To My MotherSo much doesn't matter. We fret, we fuss, we escalate the smallest things. But, truth is, it doesn't matter.
I was your rebellious son,
do you remember? Sometimes
I wonder if you do remember,
so complete has your forgiveness been.
So complete has your forgiveness been
I wonder sometimes if it did not
precede my wrong, and I erred,
safe found, within your love,
prepared ahead of me, the way home,
or my bed at night, so that almost
I should forgive you, who perhaps
foresaw the worst that I might do,
and forgave before I could act,
causing me to smile now, looking back,
to see how paltry was my worst,
compared to your forgiveness of it
already given. And this, then,
is the vision of that Heaven of which
we have heard, where those who love
each other have forgiven each other,
where, for that, the leaves are green,
the light a music in the air,
and all is unentangled,
and all is undismayed.
(Poem by Wendell Berry)
What does matter is that however absurd we are, there are others who top our absurdity.
"Tolstoy died poor. " That's what Annie said tonight, after Lloyd read from one of Tolstoy's letters.
"In historical events great men - so-called - are but labels serving to give a name to the event, and like labels they have the least possible connection with the event itself. Every action of theirs, that seems to them an act of their own free will, is in an historical sense not free at all, but in bondage to the whole course of previous history, and predestined from all eternity."Free?
(Leo Tolstoy, from War and Peace)