… happiness dwells in the soul.
Democtitus, 496-406 B.C.
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I read in The Wall Street Journal that Belfast has become a haven for crime writers, successful ones at that. From the murderous time of The Troubles to crime writing. Not much of a toss from second to first there.
In the very same edition of The Journal I read a lengthy and favorable review of an HBO show which seems to center on this one dreary proposition: a husband stirs his wife daily, shall we say even moment-to-moment, scorn by showing her that he loves her.
Geez, Louise. Talk about jaded.
If there were alarm bells for being lost they would be resounding clearly if this is who we have become: fed on violence and a disdain for love.
Can anyone imagine the picture of health being an indulgence in violence and a contempt for love? How is life possible under that umbrella? How is each day lived under that sort of cloud?
Having read these two reviews, I reflectively asked myself: How do I wish to live my remaining years? Instinctively, I thought: in quiet, in the country, where nature prevails in its beauty, where man is not so near, where I can read and write, sit with the Divine, converse with what is Good and Lasting, be able to visit my son, and grandson, and friends – friends of many years – my treasure, and worship with the Trappists in their monastery – a regular reminder of what has meaning and satisfies.
Is it age that prompts my thinking? Maybe. Or maybe maturity? Or exhaustion from the battles endured and the hopes reconfigured?
Be that as it may, it is fair to say that we have in front of us an age that wields a sharp and indiscriminate knife, an age without a loving voice that overrides as it once did, that soothes and comforts, gives us ready and ample shelter and reassurance.
Yet, in the soul (if you can find your soul) there, there it still resides.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.”
Yes, “why do you look for the living among the dead?” Why be among the dead, when you can be of the living?