New Seasons

The old order changeth yielding place to new And God fulfills himself in many ways Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me I have lived my life and that which I have done May he within himself make pure but thou If thou shouldst never see my face again Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

Tennyson, Morte d'Arthur.

I'm not a hugely sentimental person, or at least not a maudlin one if I am.  Still, there's been a sense of some passing recently and they've been in my mind a lot.

This weekend saw a couple of those, and I find that I have mixed feelings about them.  Both of them serve a necessary purpose.  One of them was inevitable and waited for actually for some time, a little under a year.  The other was not, and there's the chance that it may find some future expression perhaps, but likely not.

A passing of time, circumstances and obligations in operation.

I don't really believe in the burning bridges analogy.



That is, the burning bridges analogy doesn't actually make historical sense and it's a poor analogy.

There are few rivers so deep that, if you need to, you can't back over them at some ford, or cross them if you need to. All burning a bridge really does, either in historical fact or in metaphor, is slow down getting back across a river you want to.

Of course, if you want to get back across a river in a hurry, that's one thing. But if you have time and can expend the effort, you usually can.  All the major armies of the Second World War managed to get over major rivers when they wanted to, even if they were delayed.  You'll get back across them. . . usually.

It's distance from that bridge that really matters. The further you are from it, the less likely you will be to cross back over.  And at some point, you can't get back there.

Maybe.

Sometimes it winds back around, and you cross it up stream or down.

Sometimes you always can get back to it.

But things do change with time and we need on occasion to acknowledge that.  Time creates new duties and we need to rise to them, and sometimes let the old ones go.

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Shakespeare; As You Like It.

We need to be careful on that however.

I do not want you to be unaware, brothers and sisters,
that our ancestors were all under the cloud
and all passed through the sea,
and all of them were baptized into Moses
in the cloud and in the sea.
All ate the same spiritual food,
and all drank the same spiritual drink,
for they drank from a spiritual rock that followed them,
and the rock was the Christ.
Yet God was not pleased with most of them,
for they were struck down in the desert.
These things happened as examples for us,
so that we might not desire evil things, as they did.
Do not grumble as some of them did,
and suffered death by the destroyer.
These things happened to them as an example,
and they have been written down as a warning to us,
upon whom the end of the ages has come.
Therefore, whoever thinks he is standing secure
should take care not to fall.

Saint Paul to the Corinthians

Sometimes, however, to some extent, there's a sense of comfortable fading away in that, or at least we should not be discomforted too much.

Old soldiers never die,
Never die, never die,
Old soldiers never die
They just fade away. 

Privates they love their beer, 'most every day.
Corporals, they love their stripes, that's what they say.
Sergeants they love to drill. Guess them bastards always will
So we drill and drill until we fade away.

Old soldiers never die,
Never die, never die,
Old soldiers never die
They just fade away. 

Things fade, but that fading isn't the same as ending really.  Things don't really end in my view, the pass on to something else. Everyone and everything is connected.  And as those experiencing the fading appreciate it, if they do, they realize in some odd way that those who faded before come back into focus, not really gone.