A chilly Spring, chilly enough for mulled wine in the afternoon. An acquaintance left her lover and now lives in a Winnebago where she spends her days writing and birdwatching. Lovely. Another friend, oceans apart, shares my sense of distance and disconnection. It feels meaningless, we say. But, say the Great Masters, in no meaning there is BIG MEANING. We shall see what the Outer Banks whisper to me this week. . .we shall see.
“A disenchantment falsified and blunted my usual feelings and joys: the garden lacked fragrance, the woods held no attraction for me, the world stood around me like a clearance sale of last year’s secondhand goods, insipid, all its charm gone. Books were so much paper, music a grating noise. That is the way leaves fall around a tree in autumn, a tree unaware of the rain running down its sides, of the sun or the frost, and of life gradually retreating inward. The tree does not die. It waits.”
—Hermann Hesse, from Demian