In our heart of hearts, there is nothing we know better than that our knowledge ordinarily so-called, is only a tiny island in the immense ocean of the unexplored.
Walking towards the library, in the brightly-lit snowy morning, the nutty flavor of the espresso rolling over my tongue, tasting of Italy's blue sky, Mediterranean sun, coffee shops in Trastevere. This is the sort of coffee you can get behind. It has a lush body, thick legs, and it walks all over your papillae with hot confidence.
The snow is falling down in thick, fluffy flakes stuck together is small clusters that melt on your eyelashes and ice your coat in crystals. This is the sort of snow you can get behind. Gentle, it falls with delicate sensitivity. It sticks lightly to the ground, and builds upon itself, until it has knitted itself into a tight tea cozy covering the earth. You kick the snow on the sidewalk, and it flies up in a sparkle of frozen fireworks.
The permacloud has descended over South Bend, after a brief respite of glorious sun. But the permacloud made it possible for trees to grow here, south of Lake Michigan. Trees can grow even here, in the midst of the Indiana plains. And though it makes us feel like we live for five months underneath a blanket, it gives us the beautiful sycamore outside my window, the birch and pine trees that line the lakes, the glorious, craggy arboreal monoliths on God quad.
It is easy to write off the permacloud as annoying. It is easy to write off another human as discovered. But we cannot love what we are not constantly rediscovering. It takes away my breath to find that each new day the earth looks just as beautiful as she did yesterday, but in a glorious new way. The monotony of nature is not monotonous. It is divine. Even the people that we see each morning bring surprises. We discover that his eyes are blue. How could I never notice that before? I am constantly in awe at how the world grows past us, beyond us. The limits of the universe are expanding past our knowledge even as we speak, we can never outgrow her.
We know better than anything else that the essential question facing us in knowledge is whether we love the little island of our so-called knowledge better than the ocean of the infinite mystery.