the splendor of the seasons

it's raining--and it sure is welcomed. we're not quite living in a dry and dusty land, but the grass is parched. the grey skies and thunder make it a lovely afternoon to be inside, and I'm glad I am. I recently read about a scientist who links that exuberant feeling awakened with the coming of spring to something hardwired in our evolved genes; whether that's the case or not, I have certainly felt that exuberance, as if life were beginning again--and felt as though I myself were capable of absorbing energy directly from all the newly green matter around me. I just finished reading Annie Dillard's The Maytrees, and my thoughts about the seasons as markers of finitude and new beginnings were echoed on each page. That sort of naturalism, combined with the existential reading and philosophy I've been caught up with as of late has me acutely aware of Heidegger's notion of "Being-towards-death." (I'm probably totally freaking my mom out by writing this--sorry, mom, I've been studying philosophy for too long!) I can't help it. From my first class in introductory philosophy with Dr. Neujahr, I've learned that philosophy is "learning how to die well," and I've absorbed so much existentialism along the way--from Kierkegaard's anxiety, to Heidegger's "thrown-ness,"--the state in which we find ourselves, but didn't necessarily ask for--and the practical issues of bioethics which deal inevitably with the end of human life and the possibilities for extending it, and whether the latter is even truly desirable. More conservative critics, in a Heideggerian vein, seem to think that extending life willy-nilly has the potential to trivialize human life, and to rob it of meaning. Our time-boundedness, and awareness of our finitude encourage us to act and to appreciate, to make a mark in the time we have allotted. One's refusal to look her own future death in the face, and to reckon with it, to push it off into the too-distant-future or to pretend it won't happen, can be a refusal to embrace one's own humanity, to live in (presumably) animal-like ignorance and to enjoy animal-like pleasures to the exclusion of a certain seriousness, as well as human and humanizing tasks--culture-building, for instance. I'm beginning to see the ever-closer ties between existentialism, politics, and psychology, a sort of societal-wide procrastination (God knows, I am guilty as an individual!) and excessive individualism that cares not for what comes later, so long as it doesn't affect one's self. This was exemplified to me as of late, when I heard representatives from Chicago's teachers union downplaying the successes of charter schools and other educational ventures, agitating for more money and time. I certainly know that an educational system can't be overhauled overnight, but it seems to me that time is something that early learners don't have in excess. If a child doesn't learn to read by, say, the third grade, what real hope is there for that individual to become capable of genuine learning, or to cultivate a love of civic engagement? The burden for this child does not, certainly, rest on teachers alone, but time is, in this instance, of the essence. A window missed, in this case, will have real consequence, and more for the child than the (presumably literate) unionized teacher. In our time and place, adult illiteracy vastly increases the odds that one's life will be nasty, brutish, and short. One's ability to read (even seemingly pessimistic philosophy) is liberating, allowing one to decode bus schedules and legal contracts (maybe!), but literature also connects us with others and reflexively shows us our place in the world, and gives us hope through access to other possibilities. Literacy is practically and theoretically wrapped up with existential freedom. The changing weather (now the sun is peaking through the clouds), changing seasons, the new year, one's own personal new year (birthday), the start of a school year (or fiscal year), are regular reminders of flux and growth--and finitude. (I just ordered The Now Habit, in an attempt to further my own literacy and to nix my own procrastinating tendencies. Now, if someone would just teach those little kids to read...