It is the memory of time that makes us old. Remembering eternity makes us young again.
- Stratford Caldecott
As we read literature, we are being moved. When we read great literature well, we can’t help but respond in movement and melody, drawing an accord between what we have read and how we will live as our vitality of truth is restored through the outflow of it as the symphony of words curves through the gorges of our starved souls.
As the heart pumps, it draws in the suffocated cells in order to gift them to the lungs — the breath being the only means by which the blue be made life-red — and that newness of purpose returns to the heart so that it may be thrusted out to the whole of the body. Each cell, revitalized and surging, whispers the continuance of life to the organs deemed its source. But organs without oxygenated blood are dead.
As we drink in truth, beauty, and goodness, micro-incarnations are received and we are able to continue the song of humanity. Yet, it requires community to carry on a thing, for consider what is lost when the heart fails of an individual who has been faithful to grow swollen with all that he or she ought. Thus, movement requires the individual alive in the collective — pumping the gifted wellspring outward, living and loving and grieving as we remember what may not be forgotten and birth it again. And again. And again.
Dry bones made flesh. Lifted up, crafted once again into submission of the sinews, ligaments, muscles. A body alive.
As we walk the roads that were lovingly word-woven for our traversing through great books, let us commit to the coming together. Let us sit in the places of the world where there is such a powerful saturation of Superior language and mystery, that beauty convulses us alive again. So we talk about it. And then we move.