The taste of English Summer on a Winter's Day

Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore, / So fair a summer look for nevermore:/ All good things vanish less than in a day, / Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. / Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year, / The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

~ From: Summers Last Will and Testament by Thomas Nash, the first husband of William Shakespeare's granddaughter Elizabeth Barnard.

If the midnight sun is the hallmark of Greenland in summer, where the traditional concept of time loses all meaning, where the sun kisses the horizon but never sets, where the day has neither a beginning nor an end: to see the sun shining unbroken, on an English Summer's day, is a rarity. Like a stained glass window, the day sparkles and shines when the summer's sun is out in England.

When it happens, it lights up and captures our heart; speaks to our imagination; and is a thing of joy - its loveliness increasing by the hour, until the day passes into memory. Anything in any way that is touched by the beauty of an English summer's day is one of those rare things that do not lead to doubt of God.

When the air fills with dreamy and magical light, the landscape lay as if new, and the day has passed into the land of dreams: its summer in England. However, the woods may be full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom, the merry bee may trample the pinky threads all day, and one may capture the elusive flavour of a timeless English summer with roses and elderflower, strawberries and honeydew, ale and cider; yet the sun on any English summer's day, will not shine all day. "Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date," said William Shakespeare.

That being so, to have a day of English summer on a winter's day, let alone think of it, is the rarest of rare occasion. Yet it happens, sometimes: rare old times.

If summer represents the joy of the freedom it brings, it seems that most of the world lives in the gloom of despair of the winter's day.

May be that the warmth of summer will lack sweetness without the shroud of gloom of a wintry winter; but if a whole life is dreary, what good is one day of summer in endless winter's days: even if it comes; one swallow does not make a summer, neither does one fine day make for felicity. Springtime for birth, summertime for growth, and all seasons for dying, they say; but if summertime is always the best of what might be, but never be; where is summer? Nevertheless, one could maintain a little of summer, even in the middle of the harshest winter, if there was hope: hope of redemption from a weary life; but if hope be eternally hopeless and life be forever joyless; is it not, but the same as a year without summer? And endless years without summer makes for wretchedness that is endless. Whom should we blame for this unfortunate state of man but man himself and his ignorance of his inheritance: the intellect - that power of perception that sets him apart from the rest of life. However, unwilling to use his intellect and enlist inquiries, man is led into a state of benightedness where ignorance breeds cowardice, cowardice breeds poverty, poverty breeds contempt.

Result

As a result, he lives scorned, despised, and ignored by those very same people who caused his darkness: those entrusted by him to bring solace become the originators of this loathsome state of man and his beggary. The fool of a man needs to learn that there is in him, an invincible scent of summer even in the depths of winter; that time cannot crop the roses from his cheeks though sorrow has long washed them. That the taste of an English summer on a winter's day will surely come for all time if man is willing and inclined to use intelligent judgment in all matters, especially in the choice of trust he places in others who are supposed to govern his affairs.

"People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy," said Anton Chekhov, Russian physician, dramaturge, and author, considered to be among the greatest writers of short stories in history. That may be true, but it is worth remembering that: "Wherever there is light, there is shadow. Wherever there is length, there is shortness. Wherever there is white, there is black. Just like these, nothing can exist alone" - Chögyam Trungpa, the Tibetan meditation master.

Thus, joy and sorrow are inseparable as day and night.

Together they come, and if one be by your side, the other is asleep upon your bed waiting to move in as soon as she awakens. The challenge therefore is to keep sorrow eternally at rest, if it is possible; and if not, at least have her less at one's side. To accomplish this, man needs the use of his intellect. The intellect is like the sun: a light that emanates from the mind; and even if clouds dim the light sometimes as on a summer's day, the heart will give it direction by retaining some glimmerings of the inner light which leads to truth; but he needs the courage to follow this faint light wherever it may lead. To possess courage is to move from the darkness of colder climes to the tropics where the sun will shine most days of the year. Move the mind from darkness to light. By doing so, one could find more joy than sorrow. Remember that men of great wisdom were all born in the tropics where the light shines bright all day, most days. They were the greatest of men: men who created the history of religions; men who saw that life was service and service was joy; men who spoke only if they had something to say, unlike the fools in these days who speak because they have to say something even when they have nothing to say.

Difficult

The world reflects what you need to see, not only what you want to see. The most difficult part of life is not when others do not see what you see, but when you do not see what you need to see. Therefore, try discovering that which you need to see, instead of only seeing what you want to see. Precious stones are not in every mountain, diamond are not to be found everywhere, sandalwood is not in every forest, similarly intelligent people are not everywhere.

They are more like the taste of an English summer on a winter's day: rare, and rarer in our society where pretence to intelligence is the norm. Yet they are there. Find them and have a rare old time. For the people who live in the eternal hopelessness of life's miseries, life will bloom with the joy of freedom the taste English summer brings, especially on a winter's day, by the acquaintance of people of intellect who are skilled thinkers. However, remember that the functions of intellect are insufficient without courage, love, friendship, compassion, and empathy.

See you this day next week. Until then, keep thinking; keep laughing. Life is mostly about these two activities.

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