Someone wrote a poem about November, in which he described the moisture that the night, or the rain perhaps, had left on the roof, which continually built up into globules of light and at intervals fell from the eaves. He could not have given a better portrait of the month, coming as it does towards the middle of the season of rainy days and chilly nights. And he succeeded in conveying the pensive character of November, whose weather calls for the shelving of outdoor pursuits in favor of reflection.
The world of the senses gives body to the world of the spirit. For this reason I have learned to pay attention to such as the shine of paper clips lying on the tabletop, the meandering of ants crawling on the stems of flowers in a vase, the sag of pillows on the sofa, the clink of glass and the glow of silverware on the table. And of course to the wave of gesture and the flow of conversation, making sure that, without strain, I remain alert to things.
Love is in the details.
The wife and I hardly ever mention it, but there is no mistaking the affection that exhibits itself in the way we treat each other, in our conversations, in the moments of togetherness, whose passage is marked by the drip of leftover drizzle falling from the eaves.
Last night, she prepared a cup of tea and a donut for me. I rushed to the table to take a sip and a bite, and quickly returned to the computer to tie up a sentence I had left hanging for fear that the thought that had held it together might disintegrate. But she reminded me to finish the tea before it turned cold. The reminder certainly warmed the cockles of my heart, even if it made my head go vacant.
The mathematician and philosopher Alfred North Whitehead said, “We think in generalities, but we live in detail.”
Ezra Pound, for instance, meant to convey the beauty of a Chinese girl named Rafu, not by saying that she was beautiful but by showing the effect her beauty had on men:
And when men going by look on Rafu
They set down their burdens,
They stand and twirl their moustaches.
In the same way, I need to translate into fine points what Jesus declared in Mark as the two greatest commandments: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength,” and “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Loving God and neighbor demands that I move from generalities to details. I should be able to translate the idea into specific images, particular acts.
The actuality of meetings, the sound of the voice and the touch of the hand, and above all the effect of speech and act – these go into the way I am to love others, and, in due course, the way I am to love the Lord.
At one time, a vendor approached me with a basket of oranges. I picked one bright reddish-yellow fruit, held it in the hand to feel its roundness, took a draught of its pleasantly pungent aroma, and smiling in approbation returned it to the basket. I had then no plans of making a purchase, but the vendor did not mind. Although I did not say a word, she could see from my gesture that I appreciated the fruit.
I hope that somehow I had shown kindness to her with the help of an orange.