BitterSweetLife

It has been a weird week. By turns satisfying and vacuous, the last seven days have revealed the limitations of apartment living, the shortcomings of bookish seclusion, and the fragile nature of my “poetic” muse. At the same time, the necessity of musing and reading has been affirmed. They’re essential, but when taken in isolation, they can sap the life out of you.

It rained—freezing drizzle—all week, so getting outside was not an option. Academically, my duties were still with me, so an illusion of absolute freedom was impossible to maintain. Otherwise Lindsay and I might have packed up and drove off in search of sunnier climes.

But no, we had to stay put, inside, and I had to write papers, and my most worthwhile leisure pursuit, by default, was reading. Ironically, I wanted to read. But when reading became the only option, it lost some of its appeal. As Solomon said, “The writing of many books is wearying to the body,” and if this is true, we can assume that reading them all can be equally depressing.

I can’t believe I just wrote that. But I did, and there it is. Good things in too-large doses can still hurt you. Great books, without the benefit of sunlight, physical exertion and fresh air, preferably occurring simultaneously, possess all the allure of Webster’s reconstituted. Knowing should never be severed from doing. It’s good to get this straight now, early in life, so I won’t be confused later on.

Down the road, when I break an Oxford speaking engagement to hoop it up in a local gym, I will laugh in the face of my detractors. “I guess you just tanked your academic credibility,” they’ll sneer.

“Maybe,” I’ll reply, “but you just wish you had my jump shot.”

Knowledge and living, you just can’t keep ‘em separated. As far as the Ivory Tower goes, give me a bungalow in Ocean City or a cabin near Estes Park, and I’ll call it even. Meditation should not take place amid inaction. Musing needs conversation to keep it sane.