All of us have read thrilling stories in
which the hero had only a limited and
specified time to live. Sometimes it was as
long as a year; sometimes as short as
twenty-four hours. But always we were
interested in discovering just how the
doomed man chose to spend his last days or
his last hours. I speak, of course, of free
men who have a choice, not condemned
criminals whose sphere of activities is
strictly delimited.
Such stories set us thinking,
wondering what we should do under similar
circumstances. What events, what
experiences, what associations should we
crowd into those last hours as mortal
beings? What happiness should we find in
reviewing the past, what regrets?
Sometimes I have thought it would
be an excellent rule to live each day as if we
should die tomorrow. Such an attitude
would emphasize sharply the values of life.
We should live each day with a gentleness, a
vigor, and a keenness of appreciation which
are often lost when time stretches before us
in the constant panorama of more days and
months and years to come. There are those,
of course, who would adopt the Epicurean
motto of "Eat, drink, and be merry," but
most people would be chastened by the
certainty of impending death.
In stories the doomed hero is usually
saved at the last minute by some stroke of
fortune, but almost always his sense of
values is changed. He becomes more
appreciative of the meaning of life and its
permanent spiritual values. It has often
been noted that those who live, or have
lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow
sweetness to everything they do.
Most of us, however, take life for
granted. We know that one day we must
die, but usually we picture that day as far in
the future. When we are in buoyant health,
death is all but unimaginable. We seldom
think of it. The days stretch out in an
endless vista. So we go about our petty
tasks, hardly aware of our listless attitude
toward life.
The same lethargy, I am afraid,
characterizes the use of all our faculties and
senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing,
only the blind realize the manifold blessings
that lie in sight. Particularly does this
observation apply to those who have lost
sight and hearing in adult life. But those
who have never suffered impairment of
sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use
of these blessed faculties. Their eyes and
ears take in all sights and sounds hazily,
without concentration and with little
appreciation. It is the same old story of not
being grateful for what we have until we
lose it, of not being conscious of health until
we are ill.
I have often thought it would be a
blessing if each human being were stricken
blind and deaf for a few days at some time
during his early adult life. Darkness would
make him more appreciative of sight;
silence would tech him the joys of sound.
Now and them I have tested my
seeing friends to discover what they see.
Recently I was visited by a very good friends
who had just returned from a long walk in
the woods, and I asked her what she had
observed.. "Nothing in particular, " she
replied. I might have been incredulous had
I not been accustomed to such reposes, for
long ago I became convinced that the seeing
see little.
How was it possible, I asked myself,
to walk for an hour through the woods and
see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot
see find hundreds of things to interest me
through mere touch. I feel the delicate
symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly
about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or
the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In the
spring I touch the branches of trees
hopefully in search of a bud the first sign of
awakening Nature after her winter's sleep. I
feel the delightful, velvety texture of a
flower, and discover its remarkable
convolutions; and something of the miracle
of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if
I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently
on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of
a bird in full song. I am delighted to have
the cool waters of a brook rush thought my
open finger. To me a lush carpet of pine
needles or spongy grass is more welcome
than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me
the page ant of seasons is a thrilling and
unending drama, the action of which
streams through my finger tips.
At times my heart cries out with
longing to see all these things. If I can get so
much pleasure from mere touch, how much
more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet,
those who have eyes apparently see little the
panorama of color and action which fills the
world is taken for granted. It is human,
perhaps, to appreciate little that which we
have and to long for that which we have not,
but it is a great pity that in the world of light
the gift of sight is used only as a mere
conveniences rather than as a means of
adding fullness to life.
(待续…）