Dreams often transgress into the past as if a forty-year career hasn’t properly ended, even when final grades were done a half-decade ago. A few days ago, the night’s visitation ghosted students who were more concerned with getting points than with understanding. Will we ever learn?
The art of teaching inspires the quest into the inarticulate, not the adulation of dead letters. Love glides above, beyond the best of poems. Modeling has a place but truth lives in continual creation.
Education, at essence, invites experience of wonder, nurtures longing for not-knowing, frees the drive further into mystery where the personally unique swirls into Union.
A trace or savoring of such might be felt as resonance; maybe it’s a subtle tone of love—the sense of entering a harmony, a tension that joys in the fragrance of peace.
In this way, my reading has recently delighted in the terrain of Teilhard de Chardin. For example,
“When he has pursued to the end the vocation contained in all sense-perception—when his eyes have once become accustomed to the Light invisible in which both the periphery of beings and their centre are bathed—then the seer perceives that he is immersed in a universal Milieu, higher than that which contains the restlessness of ordinary, sensibly apprehended, life: a Milieu that knows no change, immune to the surge of superficial vicissitudes—a homogeneous Milieu in which contrasts and differences are toned down. As yet, he can say nothing of this diffuse Reality except that it exists, that it is enveloping and that in a mysterious way it is beatifying. It is enough for him, however, to have glimpsed its serene and luminous folds. Nothing henceforth can shake his determination to move for ever into its embrace and to find his happiness in there becoming ever more lost.” [p. 120, Writings in Time of War]
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