Canter Bridge

Life comes at us in textures and layers. Many of the latter are transparent to the careful observer. Under scrutiny, they can be seen through to what lies beneath.

The person who has practiced wisdom nearly forgets that life is this way, so accustomed does she become to living thoughtfully. For her, first impressions are merely that. The first glimpse, to be followed by careful reflection and—soon—sacrificed to the more complete picture.

That is to say, the wise person studies life. It would be facile to turn this into caricature, to imagine that this kind of life knows nothing of spontaneity, of artistry, of joy. That would be, again, rushing carelessly to conclusions, which is what the simple do as a matter of course.

In reality, the wise woman’s eyes often sparkle with discovery. She is alive to the manifold artistry, design, and hidden delight that she discovers in human interaction, in ‘nature’, in the ordered chaos of a good community living out its good life, in the unlikely trajectories of recovery and restoration.

The wise man ponders, sometimes with the furrowed brow of concentration. He gazes upon others with the half-smile of the discoverer who leans forward into conversation, into life.

One knows that a venomous snake may lurk in this riotously flowered garden. So one treads carefully rather than standing feebly on the asphalt parking lot next door.

The simple believes that everything is simple. The prudent knows better, deciding to walk here rather than there. Here where the angle of view is better and one lives long to tell of it.