There is so little evidence of time in our natural environment, and what there is is of such a scale to evade notice of its accretion—e.g. the rings in a tree, sediment layers in the ground—that we have no in-bred mechanisms for thinking of and communicating the passage of time. Our awareness of it is so recent, our means still so rudimentary.

There is so much research in this, and the culture has been tackling it, wrestling with it for centuries… and I get the sense that it is coming to a head now. Because our technological capabilities are getting us there, and our progress demands it.

“There seems to be something unsettlingly raw in the russian spirit. Something I can only imagine coming from the terrible expanse of its territory, most of it threateningly inhospitable, and the diverse cultures of the people who have had to live with it for so long.”

 LEVENDIS: On Friday the 11th of October, he lay in his own filth on the sidewalk outside the British Embassy in Rangoon, holding begging bowl. He was half-hidden by the angle of the high wall from sight of the military guards on post. A woman in her fifties, who had been let out of a jitney just up the street, having paid her fare and having tipped as few rupees as necessary to escape a strident rebuke by the driver, smoothed the peplum of her shantung jacket over her hips, and marched imperially toward the Embassy gates. As she came abaft the derelict, he rose on his elbow and shouted at her ankles, “Hey, lady! I write these pomes, and I sell ‘em for a buck inna street, an’ it keeps juvenile delinquents offa the street so’s they don’t spit on ya! So whaddaya think, y’wanna buy one?” The matron did not pause, striding toward the gate, but she said snappishly, “You’re a businessman. Don’t talk art.”

(Ask me where this is from, I’ll happily tell you.)

When an archer is shooting for fun
He has all his skill.

If he shoots for a brass buckle
He is already nervous.

If he shoots for a prize of gold
He goes blind

Or sees two targets –
He is out of his mind.

His skill has not changed,
But the prize divides him.

He cares
He thinks more of winning
Than of shooting –
And the need to win
Drains him of power.

- Chuang Tzu

Prince Wen Hui’s cook
Was cutting up an ox.
Out went a hand,
Down went a shoulder,
He planted a foot,
He pressed with a knee
The ox fell apart
With a whisper,
The bright cleaver murmured
Like a gentle wind.
Rhythm! Timing!
Like a sacred dance,
Like “The Mulberry Grove”
Like ancient harmonies!

“Good work!” the Prince exclaimed,
“Your method is faultless!”
“Method?” said the cook
Laying aside his cleaver,
“What I follow is Tao
Beyond all methods!

“When I first began
To cut up oxen
I would see before me
The whole ox
All in one mass.
“After three years
I no longer saw this mass.
I saw the distinctions.

“But now, I see nothing
With the eye. My whole being
Apprehends.
My senses are idle. The spirit
Free to work without plan
Follows its own instinct
Guided by natural line,
By the secret opening,
The hidden space,
My cleaver finds its own way.
I cut through no joint, chop no bone.

“A great cook needs a new chopper
Once a year - he cuts.
A poor cook needs a new one
Every month - he hacks!

“I have used this same cleaver
Nineteen years.
It has cut up
A thousand oxen.
Its edge is as keen
As if newly sharpened.
“There are spaces in the joints;
The blade is thin and keen:
When this thinness
Finds that space
There is all the room you need!
It goes like a breeze!
Hence I have this cleaver
Nineteen years
As if newly sharpened!

“True, there are sometimes
Tough joints. I feel them coming,
I slow down, I watch closely,
Hold back, barely move the blade,
And whump! the part falls away
Landing like a clod of earth.

“Then I withdraw the blade,
I stand still
And let the joy of the work
Sink in.
I clean the blade
And put it away.”

Prince Wen Hui said,
“This is it! My cook has shown me
How I ought to live
My own life!”

~ Chuang Tzu (translated by Thomas Merton)