||[Jul. 16th, 2002|09:27 pm]
I just had a talk with someone. The topic turned to a problem I have been facing, and put me in a melancholy mood filled with possibilities not met and possible and lost futures.|
Now I have been spending part of my time lately patching up some fallen bathroom tiles. In the tradition of the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintance I have been thinking of comparing mending that wall with some things that were brought up in the conversation I just had.
(btw, Joy, a Frost poem is a big part of my musings after the lj-cut just thought I'd warn you)
The weird wiring in my brain popped in Frost's poem The Mending Wall into my head. Unfortunately, that poem has little to do with anything I want to write about save the very superficial repair of a "wall."
Or maybe it does in a way -- just not as deeply as I wanted.
The wall in the poem maintains the friendship of the two neighbors as they go through their regular routine of fixing it together. I was fixing a wall that for too long was missing tiles.
Mending that wall on my own, the analogy ends.
Where I wanted to continue is that, like anyone, I am mending my life. Life is a constant task. We "mend" (or wreck) our lives with every action we take. It is the wall behind those tiles that is more constant, but even that can be damaged (as I discovered is the case with my bathroom wall). Our very life sometimes needs to be mended lest our tiles will constantly fall off if attached to a wall that isn't plumb but cracked, chipping, and warped.
Well, enough of this metaphysical junk. I have a wall to grout.