On Yin, Yang, and Relics of Yore.

Yet another day of near-incessant rain, and the Shire has been indulging its Venetian pretensions again. I read a news feature which reminded me that for some years now the climate scientists have been forecasting that, as the effects of climate change take hold, British winters are likely to become warmer and wetter while the summers will turn hotter and drier.

I’m not all sure that I approve of either. Winters blanketed under leaden skies and running with excess water mean too much yin. Blistering sun and arid earth means too much yang. It seems we’re moving to a state of uncomfortable imbalance. I think this is probably why I so love those warm summer evenings with a light drizzle falling. I think I’ve come to know when the balance is just right.

*  *  *

Tonight I had reason to look out an old photograph from my picture files on the computer. I found it and discovered that I was included in the group shot at around age seven. Well, what does one do in that situation but spend time searching the files for other pictures taken through the multitude of personal ages? And so I did.

I saw clear eyes and an open visage bereft of frown lines. I saw thick hair that fell naturally into waves at the back, like a lion’s mane. I saw dark beard growth clothing a jaw line that was more prominent than it is now. I saw an easy, upright bearing and a strong body capable of doing all that might justify its gender. And then I asked myself whether there was any particular period to which I would like to return if such a thing were possible.

I decided there wasn’t. It seems to me that as each age and experience passes and floats away on the wake of the ship of life, it becomes a stale thing fit only for the fishes or the falling. I’ve spent the whole of my life in the foc’sle looking ahead, anticipating the next thrill, the next revelation, the next new romance, and the next enlivening experience. Such a view has its benefits and drawbacks, but that’s how things have always been for me and still are. The difference now is that I see nothing in the distance but some far off, strange island where the ship will one day run aground. And that’s why I feel flat and more than a little nervous sometimes.

*  *  *

Talking of ships and wakes, it occurs to me to wonder how many millions of seagoing vessels have sailed the oceans of the world over the centuries. And, further, how much gash has been tipped over the stern to sink ingloriously to the sea bed. And then I wonder whether all that matter – mostly organic – has left tiny traces of its presence down there in the depths. Given the right circumstances and equipment, could those traces be examined and identified? Here is a fragment of a tomato dropped by a Spanish sailor in the 16^th century. This is what’s left of a chicken leg which, by its size and conformation, must have been an ancient breed know only in Anatolia. There would also be the remains of wrecked ships, and maybe some human bones, and tools aplenty I expect. There might even be another antikythera mechanism or something even more mysterious.

I’m dreaming, of course. It’s what I mostly do these days.