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May 20, 2009
Kairos
I was going to stay away from the blog for a while, as I am engaged with a death at the moment but Shelliz bringing the blog round to that subject and particularly to attachment, has made me return because I have been thinking about these things and also about time – from the viewpoint of this strange capsule that death and birth put you in.
The Greeks called the time we think of as time, ie the time our watches and clocks depict, chronos but they had another word for time kairos, what Madeleine L’Engle describes as
“that time which breaks through chronos with a shock of joy, The saint in contemplation, is in kairos. The artist at work is in kairos. The child at play, totally thrown outside herself in the game, is in kairos.”
I’ve also been having some kairos moments, - when I just get it. I am one and the same time fully engaged with the world and the present moment to such an extent that I lose my attachment to it. It’s not that my grief is not there but I’m just part of it and get a shock of perspective that it’s all OK. God is here and we are here, the earth is here, heaven is here. Things are not divided one from another. Like a great spirit that covers all of heaven and earth and does not know the difference. All will be well. Just a momentary understanding that I belong to Love rather than love belonging to me. This is, of course, before chronos takes over again and my defences return and I’m back to my more anxious and attached daily life.
I have loved this poem for many years which is about that movement from chronos to kairos.
What the Living Do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you.
~ Marie Howe ~
Posted by Tess at May 20, 2009 09:19 AM