I Saw a Man Pursuing the Horizon

I was walking along South Quad today feeling fortunate that God doesn't hold us accountable for every blade of grass. On my way to a meeting, not recently showered, several huge projects on the table, consistently failing to meet standards and keep commitments, I was frustrated that I couldn't manage all I'd been given. I watched the green prickly field drink in its last view of the sky before South Bend snowfall and tried to think about what it'd be like if humans kept grass like they kept children. How could we give personal attention to an endless field, to each poking, hopeful blade?

It's humbling to think about how much of this world's goings-on have nothing to do with us. We use math to determine the rotation of the stars, but one of our missteps proves us and not the stars astray. Nobody programs summertime. Raindrops are unaccounted for, fall leaves missing in action. Try as we might, we will never pull the sun above the horizon in a golden chariot. And a tree falls in the forest, proudly, unabashedly crashing and tearing other limbs, sending echoes that die before they reach the human ear.

I'm not trying to apply a more rational view here, which might rightly say we're darn well responsible for many aspects of the environment, as well as for the plight of the billions of nameless people around the world that suffer while we sit. Instead I'm trying to remind you that the hairs on your head are numbered. And so are all the blades of grass. You have counted neither.

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never — "

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.
-Stephen Crane