Weirdly, one of the many things that physicists cannot really explain is time. Strange, huh? We live embedded in seconds, and years, and centuries, and to us nothing is more natural than time moving forward – the arrow of time pointing inexorably from the past to the future, from youth to age, from birth to death. Oddly, however, physicists who think about such things tell us that there is no rational explanation for why the arrow of time moves forward – as a matter of the laws of physics the arrow of time could equally well point the other direction (a la The Curious Case of Benjamin Button). Moreover, physicists have come up with all sorts of theories about what time is and how it works. For example, as I recall it, one theory is called “block time,” in which all of space-time is a four dimensional block -- both past and future events are all “there” – and the only thing that changes is our sense of the “present” moving forward along that four-dimensional block.
I mention this because I’ve reached that stage of life where time grows a bit short. Part of me rebels against the transitory nature of what I love. At least on this earth, nothing lasts forever. I begin to discern, however, that time’s limits may contain a hidden sweetness. Gold has value because it is rare. Perhaps the value of what we love is greater because, at least on this earth, what we love is ephemeral. Maybe every creature, in its never-to-be-repeated uniqueness, is more precious because it is not going to be here forever.
Today’s front yard critter count:
Deer: 0 (although one of the does has been here the last few mornings, spending a chunk of yesterday morning laying relaxed in the front yard, chewing her cud and taking in the view).
Raccoons: 2
Birds eating leftover raccoon food on the front porch: many.
