My research through the past winter was rewarded with some very satisfying corroborations vis a vis some hunches I'd picked up reading Oswald Spengler's The Decline of the West.
For instance, what is the nature and exact timing of apparent 'long cycles' in human history? Are changing political forms deeply connected with these passages of time, or merely superficial? Most interesting to my mind, how does the spiritual landscape of a culture shift as it moves toward its fulfillment?
A report on my initial findings was published recently on a blog managed by friends. Because the editing style is so different from there to here, I've decided to post a link rather than copying and pasting the whole text here. As always, comments are welcome, and if you have any clues or leads to pass on, even better.
The full text of the article can be found at https://pastorsinexile.org/2017/05/03/atheism-through-the-ages/
Wednesday 24 May 2017
Thursday 27 April 2017
Spring Nights On Air
Coming home over the marshes with the taste of violet on my tongue, the sun glanced off the grey clouds, golden. Everything was fresh and strong after the thunderstorm, and the frogs and blackbirds loud, loud. Last week I ate violets too, but already the lilies-of-the-valley have overtaken them. Things move fast here in the forest, and if you don't keep up you can miss them.
I live in the downtown of a mid-sized Canadian city. The park near my house is part of a water treatment plant, and the marsh with all its glory of bird song is carefully managed by city staff, who cull the buckthorn and build nesting sites for the turtles. The highway is never out of earshot. Dogs run through the trees, and coyotes. The careful prints of deer are clear in the spring mud. This is where I live, and it is beautiful.
Twilight settles in as I sit down to write. The clouds turn gossamer pink, and the last true light glows on wooden beams and vinyl siding. A turkey vulture soars up over the apartment building next door. From the window of my townhouse I have seen jays tracing each other's footsteps across the air, and heard flickers calling across the cold, clear nights of early spring.
There was an eagle over the water today, a big one. Crows were forcing it down out of the sky, and then up over the treetops, until it vanished somewhere beyond the hospital. It may have been a young golden eagle, going north. Down by the water I've watched grackles hassling crows, and crows hassling hawks, and once, an osprey touch the lake's surface with sure and deadly grace. The ducks are all tame here, but the geese are wild, wild as their great voices echoing ragged through the wood.
Am I at home in the world? I have come to wish it so. But no one is ever at home in springtime. There's always something better coming- you can feel it in the air. Best to linger, and then get home fast.
I live in the downtown of a mid-sized Canadian city. The park near my house is part of a water treatment plant, and the marsh with all its glory of bird song is carefully managed by city staff, who cull the buckthorn and build nesting sites for the turtles. The highway is never out of earshot. Dogs run through the trees, and coyotes. The careful prints of deer are clear in the spring mud. This is where I live, and it is beautiful.
Twilight settles in as I sit down to write. The clouds turn gossamer pink, and the last true light glows on wooden beams and vinyl siding. A turkey vulture soars up over the apartment building next door. From the window of my townhouse I have seen jays tracing each other's footsteps across the air, and heard flickers calling across the cold, clear nights of early spring.
There was an eagle over the water today, a big one. Crows were forcing it down out of the sky, and then up over the treetops, until it vanished somewhere beyond the hospital. It may have been a young golden eagle, going north. Down by the water I've watched grackles hassling crows, and crows hassling hawks, and once, an osprey touch the lake's surface with sure and deadly grace. The ducks are all tame here, but the geese are wild, wild as their great voices echoing ragged through the wood.
Am I at home in the world? I have come to wish it so. But no one is ever at home in springtime. There's always something better coming- you can feel it in the air. Best to linger, and then get home fast.
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