Temperament

By nature, as often confessed before, I am a creature of wrath and pride. Not anger or arrogance, those more human shades of infamy, but ira and superbia, as the ancients used to call them – two of the seven deadly sins. By faith, as I have made thanksgiving for many times as well, I am a creature in whom these natural urges are balanced by the temperance of patience and humility, sometimes bitterly imposed upon this mortal soul. The ancients would have called me a creature of bile, both choleric and melancholy; but as we know, all this classification is twaddle – after all, the two are opposed, so how should it be so?

And yet, when faced with students who prefer not to learn their lessons, one is tempted again. It is a mortification to my flesh, the returning realisation that one is not immune to sin, although one may have been justified by faith. The instinct to wrath is the worst in my family; the men all have it to a large extent. The instinct to pride is a bad complement to it: in wrath, one is oft tempted to use one's intellect as a bludgeon rather than a rapier, but in pride, one is tempted to use it both ways, to pierce and wound as well as to bruise. The phrases, 'a sound thumping' and 'a good thrashing' come to mind, with attendant shudders and a sense of sadness that one should think of them in the first place.

And so, one smiles a lot, and trusts by faith in one's calling and the One calling. But on some days it is very hard. Very hard, dolorous almost, painful, and wrenching to the soul. The natural self is quite a beast to ride. Sigh. But otherwise, how could one be tempered? Certainly not by losing one's temper through distemper or intemperance. Certainly not by taking apart the works of other men in order to establish one's own. And certainly not by allowing the spleen to override the brain.

Equinox

At equinox the dark and light fall into balance. I sleep the sleep of life, which nobody perturbs. Pain and deceit, silliness and mortal fury, they are all shadows of little consequence now. The Spirit moves upon the face of the waters, the Wyvern cares nothing for its temporary nests of stone. In the end, that we were true to our calling is all there is. Much has been lost, and there is yet much to lose.

But for those who pray, hope and work, the best is yet to be. We shall not forsake one another; the true children know their siblings.

March

Hey. It's March now. Somewhere under the turnings of the earth is vigour, sparking into life. You think we have no seasons here? Let me tell you about two seasons, the season we are leaving and the season ahead.

The first of the seasons is Muddle. Muddle begins just after Christmas; it starts the moment you realise that you are confused about what to do before school starts and after the holiday season has begun to die. And it muddles on, bringing newness and chaos, newts and toadstools, rain and the promise of rain and tantalizing summery days which are just spots of light in grey and messy schedules. Muddle is the period in which the mind is engaged in work, but the heart is unwilling, and the soul is angry at the difference - but the spirit is resigned and somehow we negotiate Muddle, and the term ends, somewhere around the Ides of March.

And that brings us to Distal. Distal is the season of being further-into-the-year-than-you-want-to-be. It is in Distal that one thinks of approaching deserts and distant mirages and a sense that one is being worked to death despite it being only the middle of the year. April's Fools offer scant respite; April and all her Fools do not compensate for a long March, although sometimes they just May. And then comes June. Distal is the period in whcih the mind has taken a break, the heart has stirred to life, the soul feels ill at ease because the engine-brake is now working against the flow - and the spirit soars at the thought of a long break. Which it will never get.

Ah, life. In all my forty years, I have enjoyed it. Some people think it is sinful or immature to enjoy it this much. But I have only one thing to say: "I am young, still."