"Hullo! What's this? Is that a deep thought about something of importance? I say, let's think of deep, important things then, shall we? Yes, what a lovely idea! Simply marvelous how eternity drags on, isn't it? And the Trinity! What mystery! Ah, but what shall it be tonight? The state of the world and how so many problems are caused by misunderstandings? The curiousness of time and distance? Hm, death is interesting. Or what about..."
It is at this point when the thought "no, no, I'm supposed to wake up in the morning without feeling like I'm half dead" interjects before the previous jabber continues and starts delving into a topic. This repeats itself a few times until somehow I end up falling into happy little dreamland. (By the way, I've just been watching the 1981 television series of Brideshead Revisited so everything sounds British to me or as if Jeremy Irons is speaking...which is very odd in this case, I suppose, if he's narrating my thoughts.)
This likes to happen chronically and cause an annoyingly intellectual insomnia. I file the thoughts accordingly: 1) they are either something worth a quick blog post about now that I have this, 2) worth writing down on paper with a pen (my preferred means of sorting through things), or 3) something I just mull over in my head while tossing and turning in bed. At some mysterious point just before sleep takes over it's funny how our minds start to numb a bit and then suddenly sink into unconsciousness. The profound thoughts melt into the distance and we're free of them for a while. They become something along the lines of what P.G. Wodehouse says as we strain to remember our mental track: "One of the Georges - I forget which - once said that a certain number of hours' sleep each night - I cannot recall at the moment how many - made a man something which for the time being has slipped my memory." And if we haven't reached that point where we give up on the details it will still be a long time until sleep.
In a sort of awesome but potentially cruel way I'm going to leave you with one of my favourite things to ponder at odd hours...part of Book I of St. Augustine's Confessions.
"Do heaven and earth contain you because you have filled them? Or do You fill them and overflow them because they do not contain You? Where do You put the overflow of yourself after heaven and earth are filled? Or have You, who contain all things, no need to be contained by anything because what You will You fill by containing it? We cannot think You are given coherence by vessels full of You, because even if they were to be broken, You would not be spilt. When You are poured out upon us, You are not wasted on the ground. You raise us upright. You are not scattered but reassemble us. In filling all things, you fill them all with the whole of yourself."
"Is it that because all things cannot contain the whole of You, they contain part of You, and that all things contain the same part of You simultaneously? Or does each part contain a different part of You, the larger containing the greater parts, the lesser parts the smaller? Does that imply that there is some part of You which is greater, another part smaller? Or is the whole of You everywhere, yet without anything that contains You entire?"
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| Earth looks like a mighty nice footstool. |
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