Along the floor
Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell
A grateful couch was spread for our repose;
Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we lay,
Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound
Of far-off torrents charming the still night,
And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts,
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.
Wordsworth
I find myself driving down back roads on crisp autumn mornings, mornings as crisp as the apples growing in the cold air of the local orchard I recently visited. I like this image because the orchard was so quiet, like the inside my car. On warmer mornings I put down my windows and let the fresh air roll into the interior, swirl over me and fill me with the scent of bark, dew-covered earth, and composting leaves. When I'm cold I keep the windows up and drive, trying not to think, trying not to be overwhelmed by the sadness of passing time, and just be filled with the wonder and ecstasy of creation.
Sometimes I'm successful. Sometimes not so much. At the best of times I realize what the philosophers say about a remainder, that leftover "something" after one has seen, has categorized, has filed away. The remainder can't be mastered so easily by the human intellect, it can't be submitted to scientific discourse. It is what Wittgenstein was referring to when he said "whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." I have often been struck completely dumb by this remainder, when speaking about the experience can only be a nonsensical babbling. Jean-Luc Marion calls it, instead of a remainder, a gift. It is something that is given, given sometimes in such radiance, such overwhelming saturation, one is called on from and to a "place" of transcendence. We have to put the quotes around it because the place from which the gift comes is not a place in the ordinary sense of the word: thereof one must be silent.
Most of the time though, and this is about 3/4 of the time (though I'm well on my way to 2/3), it's just me and the road. I can talk about this easily enough, but I won't. There's sadness there mixed in with the wonder. I've read that mystics worked to prolong the latter, but always knew there was no possibility of an enduring beatific vision in this life. We are but ashes and dust after all, and I am not a mystic or a saint. I am not sure what I am: an eater of apples perhaps, a country driver.
