Ignorance and Mist
Yesterday morning I went to the park to practice my fly casting for an upcoming trip, and the entire town was shrouded in fog. A hawk settled into a tall bare tree, and I walked over, rod in hand, to get a closer look. The bird tolerated me standing at the base of the tree, peering up at it, for several minutes before lazily flying away to another tree.
I practiced, then decided to take a walk around the lake a few times. I wish I could do it justice: the glassy water, so still; the flotilla of geese silent and still on its surface. A stand of trees, shadowy in the mist, a bank of clouds rising like a wall in the distance, and the rising sun peering over it, making all the mist glow with a stange light. It was the park, utterly familiar, a few minutes' walk from my house. But everything was so soft, indistinct, dreamlike.
It became a metaphor, actually, for the sweetness of not knowing. Would you like to know when and how you'll die? You could take any risk, until that day. But the knowledge, the certainty, would poison everything. Do you want to know what your dinner companion to the right will say next? You wouldn't have to listen. Do you want to know what will happen on the next trip you take? You wouldn't need to go.
No, I think it's best that we wonder what will happen. The park is fine, quite well enough indeed, when I can see it, but mysterious and fascinatingly beautiful when I can't. Clearly it's the lack of clarity, of foresight, that keeps us watching as our lives unfold. We want to wonder—it's in our natures. I ache to know what will happen in a week, a month, a year. But maybe it's best that I don't. Maybe it's best.
I practiced, then decided to take a walk around the lake a few times. I wish I could do it justice: the glassy water, so still; the flotilla of geese silent and still on its surface. A stand of trees, shadowy in the mist, a bank of clouds rising like a wall in the distance, and the rising sun peering over it, making all the mist glow with a stange light. It was the park, utterly familiar, a few minutes' walk from my house. But everything was so soft, indistinct, dreamlike.
It became a metaphor, actually, for the sweetness of not knowing. Would you like to know when and how you'll die? You could take any risk, until that day. But the knowledge, the certainty, would poison everything. Do you want to know what your dinner companion to the right will say next? You wouldn't have to listen. Do you want to know what will happen on the next trip you take? You wouldn't need to go.
No, I think it's best that we wonder what will happen. The park is fine, quite well enough indeed, when I can see it, but mysterious and fascinatingly beautiful when I can't. Clearly it's the lack of clarity, of foresight, that keeps us watching as our lives unfold. We want to wonder—it's in our natures. I ache to know what will happen in a week, a month, a year. But maybe it's best that I don't. Maybe it's best.
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