Grace is not something you say over the dinner table as you prepare to eat. Farthest from it. In fact, it isn’t grace until you have no food on the table and you still say “grace”, then pretend to eat. Indeed that is grace. Graces unfounded easily fall apart like tattered strings held together by gravity, and gravity, against the call of the indisposed, grants a fall from ill-graces to ill-graces sown together from edge to edge. The wild and far in between open up to the tenets of fate. And while it is possible for harm to redo itself from ill-graces to ill-graces, it becomes possible that strife will be the fundamental-founding blocks for true graces.
Grace is not a mathematical inflection. All implications to the contrary, the human pride has no limits and when called hardly feels itself fall from graces or detect the tiny lengths of maxima and minima bridging integrity. The local minima, simple graces I choose to call it, which should be at the heart where it may be, is at the mercy of its own estimation, its own intimation, its own being, like some rigid progression, stalled, adrift, designated for some particular redemption. True graces deflect and defy inflection points. And somehow ill-graces does impregnate with inflection points empty and drab and in process draw footnotes a miniscule byproduct for a life outside all relevant and subjective material points with strife.
A life potent with strife. The statement is oxymoronic to say the least, if not perplexingly irrational at first thought. But strife is the most valuable item for emotional and intellectual acuity within all limits of true graces. It is, unfortunately, the least sought after and it seems to have the very peculiar attribute of finding its victim by reasons known or otherwise unknown, deserved or otherwise undeserved.
As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler, solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness, weakness.
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
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