Through a Glass Darkly: On Preparation
February 18, 2020

    Perhaps it is obvious, then, that all learning – and thus all growth, all knowledge, all wisdom – proceeds from a certain kind of ignorance: the ignorance borne of our being in time.  We cannot know the future, either in general or in detail; therefore, we must learn.  We must let the future teach us, draw us toward itself.  We must be teachable, therefore; we must be capable of being drawn.

     We must be ready.  

     And this seems like a contradiction in terms, a paradox.  How can we be ready for something we cannot know?  Readiness implies preparation.  How do we prepare for something we cannot see or understand in the present? 

     Answer: We can't – at least not perfectly.  Too many variables lie outside our control.  We can only see "through a glass darkly," if we see at all.  We cannot prepare for the black hole that swallows our galaxy, or the car accident that kills our child (which may be the same thing).  But we can make ourselves, now, into the kind of people who can face that void and not let go of our humanity, the kind of people who love in the face of absolute darkness, whose love for life and for one another is an affront to every kind of darkness.

     * * *

     I don't know whether I'll ever be able to walk the Appalachian trail with my children, or el Camino de Santiago, but I dream of it, and I walk with them now through the pasture and the woods.  And it makes me stronger, this walking, and the kids too.  

    I don't know whether I'll ever see my county become food self-sufficient, but I dream of it, and I tend my garden and my chickens now.  And it makes me stronger, this tending, and my county too.

    I don't know whether I'll ever publish a book of the wisdom I've collected over the years, but I dream of it, and I write now, with as much wisdom as I can muster.  And it makes me stronger, this writing, and perhaps wiser too.