Weltanschaung

The Philosopher’s Stone

zenothestoic@protonmail.ch

Tag: Melancholy

  • Tetelestai

    Tetelestai

    It is finished – yes I think I know just what the poor fellow meant.

    Contemplation is such an odd experience, especially for one in whom such words were written indelibly, in childhood.

    Somehow the relinquishing of worldly concerns plays an ever more important role in my life. I have been working for weeks, months even, on a trading algorithm which turned out to be stillborn and somehow it does not seem to matter.  Nothing much does, except to care for those around me, including my elderly and increasingly infirm parents in law.

    The dear old boy has battled valiantly to care for his mildly potty wife and finally this week the toll seems to have been demanded.  We shall rally round and give them the care they deserve.

    It does all rather close in on you but in a way, the insights it brings are very cathartic.

    I continue to toy with the big questions, quo vadis being the most poignant of those at this time. Those with faith have their own answer of course, those of us without are none too sure.

    To have lived well, to have lead a life such that you can hold your head high at the end – that is perhaps the most treasured “possession” anyone could ask for.  Pride would not be a word to use in this connection, but inner satisfaction in knowing you have done your best probably sums it up rather well.

    Sadness is an inevitable part of life. We come around to all emotions at one stage or another and if we have any sense of self preservation, we manage to ditch those which wreak the greatest destruction.

    But measured sadness – quiet melancholy for what is passed or passing, that is not an emotion to be discarded. It is a positive thing, a rich and full examination of life, a remembrance of past years and all that was good about them. If there was bad, it no longer seems to matter so much and at the end, it is the good that you remember.

    The love, the gentle kindness of a good couple – these are things to be treasured and while they are still around we should tell them how much they mean to us.

  • Fading

    Fading

    I had the curious sensation of fading, being absorbed into the background, while walking along a country lane in glorious winter sunshine this afternoon.

    Perhaps letting go does that to you. Perhaps the mental discipline of letting all pass returns you in a very real sense to where you came from.

    It seems that once you have stopped clinging so very fervently to the things which once seemed to attract you, moth-like to the flame, your mind is freed.

    I can not say that the sensation this afternoon was not accompanied by a gentle melancholy, but the feeling was not an unpleasant one.

    To every thing there is a season,
    A time for every purpose under the heaven.

    Letting go does seem to become easier with usage. It strikes me there is a likeness in methodology to renouncing an addiction. It’s all or nothing.

    I admit to having always been binary, but this time it is irreversible and I’m happy with that. It’s like Alcoholics Anonymous really: the addiction you are giving up is the world of emotion. Or rather the world of destructive emotions. And once you have admitted to it, you are in a sense free.

    Happily you do not seem to have to tip out the baby with the bathwater – pleasure remains. Quiet and hidden.

    Wife, son and such remaining family as I have buzz around me and I am contented to feel them nearby. Letting them happily fizz and fuss in a companionable sort of way. Letting them get on with their lives, and they mine.

    There are so many things I should have done today and didn’t. Nor will I, in all probability. It seemed a day rather for contemplation than busyness.

    No global gladiator, I have renounced the power breakfast for replenishing the bird feeder and watching the robin play.  I have left cocktail networking to others and potter through the odd domestic task I was entrusted with, as my busy little wife fidgeted off back to London.  In a rather nice new BMW to which I had treated myself, but which has now been wholly absorbed by my friend. Well, I don’t like driving anyway; she is welcome.

    I am reminded of the Ode to Autumn, this lazy winter’s day:

    Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness,

    Close bosom friend of the maturing sun.

    Lest that sound too valedictory a comparison, I must state otherwise. I am content to sit careless on a granary floor. Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies.

    But there is still plenty to be done and having renounced life as you once knew it, it may be easier to take more beneficial pursuit. To see what is around you and who, and to give it and them the attention which they deserve.

    To walk in the winter’s sun while there is still breath in your body and a pair of legs able to carry you. To spread perhaps a little of your own newly discovered “gospel”.  To make the world a place of slightly less fear and slightly greater beauty.

    Why speak of autumn when mid winter is upon us? Because winter is not yet in my bones and while I may, I will feast still upon the ripe rose-hips, the last of the summer’s leaves and the still warm sun.

    Winter is for another day.

     

     

  • Solace for Deep Weariness

    Solace for Deep Weariness

    Deep weariness is a feature of my life. There must be so much out there to explore, to enjoy but sometimes I prevent myself from even looking.  It all seems such an uphill effort.

    I used to think the trick was to be constantly seeking the new, the unexplored and to avoid old pastures which have become too dull, too boringly familiar.  But, as the phrase goes, “the grass is always greener”.

    Exercise certainly helps these unconstructive moods and I almost invariably feel better afterwards.  Yet there remains a persistent and tedious melancholy at my core.

    The danger in an existence such as mine is to be forever chasing the end of the rainbow. Different countries, different jobs have in the past always proved alluring but inevitably fail to achieve their object. Such change always seemed to hold out the answer, the way; it did not.

    I have reached a stage where deep, deep quiet is usually the best solution.  I remain high in my ivory tower looking out at the ants and the bees in the “real” world. They buzz, they scamper, they build their anthills and their honeycombs and presumably find satisfaction in their endeavors ( a recent New Scientists suggests that indeed bees may have consciousness, qualia).

    The solution is probably to buzz like a bee and to build like an ant. Metaphorically speaking anyway.

    The commune has always held an (ignorant) appeal for me. Pottering around in a monastic garden hoeing weeds, weaving baskets, making Buckfast Wine for the Glasgow winos. Ignorant because (a) I have never tried it and (b) I don’t like being in contact with others very much, if I can possibly avoid it.

    But a garden of one’s own may well be something different.  Il faut cultiver notre jardin.  Or engaging in handcrafted woodwork in a quiet shed, or leather book binding.  Surrounded by nothing but the noise of birdsong or perhaps the gentle susurration of the waves.

    I’m sure there is peace to be had and I have often found snatches of it. The big trick is to make it last.  Just looking at the pictures on this page gives me a sense of what might be achieved; they give me a sense of quiet joy.