[Seasons: Winter XIII]
Winter is a season of harsh opposite. Outside it’s 27 and sleeting, but inside it’s 72 and the fire is ablaze. Again, outside is saturated from precipitation, slushy with ice, but everything indoors, either stored in the shop or kept in the house, is bone dry.
Though we are drawn to the dry, warm indoors, we are compelled by the challenge of holding the opposites in tension—keeping them as close to each other as we can without mixing. We buy expensive down jackets and Gortex shells so we can be outside and yet stay dry and warm. We buy snowshoes and skis so we can be in the snow, and yet still above it and dry.
What is this draw to live in the tension of opposites?
Why is it enjoyable to hold opposites close without them commingling?
Winter reminds us that the deepest truths in life—the most meaningful values and powerful virtues—are not a denial of their opposites, but in close tension with our proclivities toward their opposites. Unless we are honest that, say, our judgement is an arm length from our love then we will be unprepared to address the ugliest parts of ourselves when it rears its head.
In other words, truth doesn’t give way to what’s opposite of good, but it’s honest with just how close it is. Truth holds the tension.
