Some time ago—perhaps a year or more—I shared the thought with a friend that, in the absence of a life partner, career milestones, or the outward markers many associate with ongoing joy and fulfillment, I found myself sustained by something smaller, more elusive, yet no less profound: moments. Fleeting as they are, these glimpses—of joy, beauty, tenderness, or connection—carry a weight that lingers long after they pass. Whether in laughter with a friend, a burst of color in nature, the unexpected joy found in art and music, or the hush of shared silence, these moments are what remain.
This conversation was brought to mind earlier today, during a pause in some simple yard work. A robin—one I have come to recognize—perched beside me on a rock for nearly twenty minutes. He did not fly, only hopped, watching me as if we were resting together. That brief companionship, quiet and unexpected, brought back the full force of that earlier insight.
The poem that follows is a first, rough attempt to give shape to that reflection.
This robin, who kept me quiet company, reminded me of the beauty in small moments—and even allowed me, kindly, to take his portrait.
Moments
by Donald S. Yarab
After so long, I see it now— life is not the grand arc we thought we were writing, not triumph etched in time or years stacked with care. It is moments.
The held door, a beat longer than required. A cloud painting itself across the sky. A flower blooming through a crack in concrete.
The hum of a bee, the song of a bird, a friend’s first hello— welcome, familiar music in the air. Laughter spilling like light through a quiet room.
A touch that speaks without language. Sunlight flickering through leaves— nature’s own Morse code. The warm drift from the kitchen: garlic, hope, onions, memory.
The first bite of something sweet dissolving on the tongue. The joy of someone you love laughing till they snort, till they can’t breathe, till you’re laughing too at nothing, at everything.
These— small rebellions against the world’s weight: its monotony, its cold indifference.
But the moments— oh, they persist. They slip through the cracks of our hardest days and remind us why we stay, why we watch, why we dare to hope for just one more:
one more kindness, one more beauty, one more laugh, one more flicker of light— each a defiance, each a benediction in this brief, bright, impossible gift of being alive.
In myth, the Furies pursue the guilty. In this meditative poem, they do not chase or condemn, but pause—witnesses to memory, silence, and the uncertain balance between reckoning and reprieve. Beneath the yew, they wait—not gone, not appeased, but listening.
Vincent van Gogh, Trunk of an Old Yew Tree (1888) Oil on canvas, 91 × 71 cm London, Helly Nahmad Gallery
“Necdum illum aut trunca lustrauerat obuia taxo / Eumenis…” — Statius, Thebaid VIII. 9–10
“Nor yet had the Fury met him, bearing the lustral yew…” — Statius, Thebaid VIII. 9–10 (adapted translation)
As darkness descends and light abates, The Furies wake at the turning of fates. No horn is blown, no omen flies— Only the hush where judgment lies.
They come not crowned, but cloaked in ash, With broken names and eyes that flash. Not wrath alone, but what endures— The weight of memory that never cures.
They walk where silence used to sleep, Where secrets rot and letters bleed. The breath of dusk is cold and tight— A wound reopens in the night.
By yews they pause, where death takes root, In soil grown thick with ash and fruit. The bark is split with silent cries, The rings record what speech denies.
They do not speak, but still the trees Murmur of trespass in the breeze. The wind forgets its mournful tone— As if the world waits to atone.
A shadow stirs, but does not fall; A light withdraws, but leaves a call. No hand is raised, no doom is cast— And yet the pulse runs through the past.
The air is thick with what might be: A breaking, or a turning key. The Furies halt—but do not sleep. And from the yews, the silence… deep.
So still they stand beneath the yew— The Furies veiled in dusk’s soft hue. Its needles dark, its berries red, It shelters both the quick and dead.
They neither strike nor turn away, But hold the hush at break of day. Their eyes are dark, their purpose blurred— As if they wait to hear a word.
The unopened book, its spine uncreased, rests on the shelf, untouched by breath. No hand has turned its waiting leaves, no eye has met its silent depths.
The pages sleep in folded time, ink unmoved by thought or light— a universe uncalled to mind, a star unkindled in the night.
Who knows what worlds it might contain— a lover’s vow, a tyrant’s fall, a name that once was yours or mine, a deathless truth, a whispered call?
The story never yet begun is writ in ink that does not fade. Its fate, unlike the morning sun, has neither risen nor decayed.
And yet—another book lies bare, its binding worn, its chapters told. The margins smudged by time and care, its tale rehearsed a thousandfold.
We read, we skip, we turn again, we bookmark thoughts we dare not bind— then falter near the closing lines, no meaning fixed, no end designed.
A narrative half-read, half-lost, its final thought left unexpressed— the thread unwinds, the ink runs dry, the reader dozes, unconfessed.
Between the two—a paradox: the never read, the half-complete. Which holds the weight of what we are? Which better marks our own defeat?
Perhaps all books are mirrors dim, reflecting what we dare not see: the start we fear, the end we flee, the truths we touch but never free.
So let it lie, unopened still, or let it fall apart, well-worn— the soul is both the waiting page, and every word we leave unborn.
The vague glimmer of a head suspended in space (1891, Lithograph) Odilon Redon (1840–1916)
I Am Undone
I.
It came not with fury, nor with fire. Not a blow, but a breath withheld. A stillness uncoiling in the spine. I did not cry out. I did not fall. I said only—I am undone. And the words were true, though I did not yet know how much they would mean.
II.
The star chart curled into ash. Landmarks dimmed, receded, folded into fog. I had names once— for the road, the self, the longing. They rusted in my mouth. I said again, am I— but the word faltered. Was I I? Was am still? Was undone the end, or only a door swinging inward with no floor?
III.
I wandered, perhaps. Or stood still and the world wandered past. The days no longer linked. Events occurred—but not to me. Faces mouthed shapes I could not hear or remember. I touched a wall that had always been there. It crumbled under my hand. I called it home, or meant to. Or once had. I think.
Un—done—I am—undone am I— I am…am I…?
IV.
And the past… no, the shape before the past— was it mine? Or borrowed from the eyes of others? Their eyes are gone. The mirror does not answer. I meant to say a thing— some thing— a small thing— but the mouth no longer forms what the mind no longer sends.
There is no forward. There is no back. There is no—
(nois)
V. Dissolution
I think I said—I was— no. I had said. Once.
Undone. It was the word. I said it. Before. Or after. I do not—
No shape to the day. No frame to the thought. They come—go— without edge.
The name of the thing was… not there. And the word for that— what was the word? The word is gone. The knowing is not.
In The First Why, I sought to explore the sacred trembling of humanity’s earliest question—the moment when consciousness dared to disturb the hush of creation. There, I argued that the act of questioning was not a fall from grace, but the beginning of wisdom, the awakening of wonder, and the first movement toward meaning.
This essay, The Second Why, turns from the theological to the historical, the philosophical to the political. It examines the ancient and recurring pattern by which those in authority, threatened by the murmur of the question, have sought not merely to answer but to silence it—sometimes by exile, sometimes by imprisonment, sometimes by death, and sometimes by the corrosion of meaning itself.
If The First Why was the breath before the question, The Second Why is the cost of speaking it aloud.
William Blake, The Ancient of Days (1794), frontispiece to Europe a Prophecy: a vision of creation measured, and mystery confined.
I. The Question That Threatens
In the hush before thought, in the stillness before speech, there stirred a murmur—the first Why.
In The First Why, I sought to explore that primal trembling: the moment when consciousness first turned inward upon itself and outward upon the world, daring to ask what had not been asked. Yet if that first question marked the birth of wonder, it also, inevitably, sowed the seeds of fear. For in every age thereafter, those who have sought to guard power have found their greatest threat not in armies nor in weapons, but in the fragile, defiant utterance of the questioner.
Throughout history, the act of questioning—not the conclusions it might yield, but the mere audacity of inquiry—has been regarded by authority as a mortal transgression. Again and again, societies have answered the quiet and insistent “Why?” with the grim decree: “Thou shalt surely die.” Whether whispered in the Athenian marketplace, charted among the stars, recorded in forbidden books, or muttered in the corners of censored universities, the question has been met with exile, imprisonment, silencing, and execution.
The pattern is ancient and unrelenting. Socrates, forced to drink the hemlock; Galileo, commanded to renounce the stars; the Inquisition’s pyres; the Nazi bonfires of thought; the gulags swallowing dissenters; the purges and bans now rising anew in the name of security, patriotism, or purity. In every case, the underlying offense is the same: the refusal to leave the hush undisturbed.
In what follows, I will trace the political, historical, and theological burden borne by those who dare to ask. For the suppression of the questioner is not merely an incidental cruelty, but the essential mark of an authoritarian impulse. To disturb the hush is to call into doubt the inevitability of power, the permanence of truth, the sanctity of the given order. Thus, the first Why was not merely a beginning. It remains a perpetual provocation—an act of revolution still echoing, and still condemned, across the centuries.
II. Historical Pattern: The Death Sentence for the Questioner
The history of civilization is marked not only by the questions that advanced knowledge, but by the relentless attempts to silence those questions and destroy their askers.
Socrates, that midwife of inquiry, was sentenced to death not because he espoused a particular heresy, but because he taught the youth of Athens to question the established wisdom of the city. His crime, ultimately, was to disturb the hush.
Galileo, peering through a telescope toward the stars, disturbed a cosmic silence maintained by theological decree. It was not heliocentrism itself that threatened the authorities—it was the precedent that nature, rather than authority, might answer the question.
The Inquisition institutionalized terror against those who inquired beyond the sanctioned bounds, who sought to hear a different resonance in scripture or reason.
The Nazi regime, recognizing the existential threat posed by free inquiry, did not merely censor books—it burned them, seeking to annihilate the memory of questioning itself.
The Soviet Union consigned dissenters to gulags not because their ideas were dangerous in themselves, but because their questioning undermined the infallibility of the Party’s pronouncements.
From the gulags of the Soviet Union, the pattern unfurled still further eastward.
In Maoist China, the Cultural Revolution unleashed an orchestrated assault on memory and inquiry: libraries ransacked, teachers denounced, ancient traditions obliterated in the name of ideological purity.
Today, under the reign of Xi Jinping, that spirit persists: a resurgence of suppression masquerading as stability. Re-education camps, purges of dissenters, the silencing of Tibetan voices, the systematic erasure of Uyghur culture—all stand as testament that the death sentence for the questioner is not an artifact of the past but a method renewed in our own day.
Nor is this pattern confined to other shores.
In contemporary America, the same ancient reflex stirs. Books are banned from public libraries under the guise of protecting the young; universities face funding threats unless they conform to ideological demands; scientific research in fields such as climate change and public health is censored, altered, or silenced.
The Department of Defense has scrubbed the achievements of minority service members—Tuskegee Airmen, Navajo Code Talkers, Medal of Honor recipients—from public websites, erasing memory itself in service of a homogenized narrative. Students at Pentagon-operated schools have sued for the restoration of forbidden books and histories, fighting against the burial of truth.
The administration has attacked the free press, threatened the licenses of broadcasters who report unfavorably, and sought to strip public media of its funding.
At the same time, Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives have been dismantled across the federal government, corporations, and law firms—silencing efforts to reflect a fuller human story.
This temptation is not confined to any one nation or ideology. Across Latin America under military juntas and authoritarian leaders, across the Middle East under rigid theocracies, across Africa under autocratic regimes, the suppression of questioning has reappeared, adorned in different garments, but always driven by the same ancient fear.
It is not a flaw of one party or one epoch. It is a perennial temptation: the temptation of all power to silence what it cannot control.
III. The Keepers of the Keys: Monopoly of Truth and the Death of the Question
Yet the suppression of questioning is only part of the authoritarian project. Its deeper ambition is the monopolization of truth itself.
Authority, when it turns tyrannical, declares not merely that certain questions must not be asked, but that the answers have already been determined, possessed, and sealed.
The rulers, the priests, the inquisitors, the commissars—each claims the sacred keys: the key to salvation, the key to justice, the key to moral righteousness. Good becomes what they pronounce; evil becomes what they forbid.
There is no longer a living search for meaning—only a mandated adherence to the truths held by the gatekeepers.
To question is not simply to err; it is to betray the natural order as they have defined it.
This monopolization is rooted not merely in political expediency but in an ancient theological distortion. In the story of Eden, as handed down by scribal hands shaped by authority, the knowledge of good and evil—the living tension of discernment—is forbidden. The human capacity to navigate complexity is recast as sin; the hunger for understanding becomes rebellion.
Thus the pattern is sanctified:
Only those who possess the keys may speak.
Only those who serve the keepers may think.
The rest must accept silence or accept exile.
Interlude: The Flattening of Knowledge—From Merism to Dualism
In the ancient myth, the Tree offered not a simple dichotomy but a totality: the knowledge of good and evil—the full sweep of moral discernment, the wholeness of moral understanding.
This fullness, this richness, could not be tolerated by those who would rule. Thus the merism was flattened into dualism: Good became what the rulers commanded; evil what they condemned.
The tree of knowledge was not destroyed; it was redefined.
The living dynamic of discernment was replaced with dead certitude.
The gift of discernment became a forbidden fruit.
The complexity of moral vision was narrowed to the dictates of authority.
Thus was the wonder of knowledge itself corrupted, stripped of its vitality, pressed into the service of domination.
IV. The Usurpation of Wonder: Authority’s Theft of Creation
In suppressing the question, in flattening knowledge, and in monopolizing truth, the authoritarian spirit commits not merely political crimes but spiritual ones. It usurps the wonder of divine creation itself.
Creation was never intended as a dead thing, frozen into rigid forms. It was meant as a living, breathing mystery—an invitation to seek, to discern, to wonder.
By claiming sole possession of truth, by forbidding inquiry, authority places itself above the living act of creation, mocking and profaning it. It substitutes its brittle edicts for the breathing Word; it erects idols of certainty in the place of the living search for truth.
Thus, the authoritarian repeats the ancient blasphemy:
Denying the image of God in the questioner,
Denying the breath of the Spirit in the seeker,
Denying the sanctity of wonder.
To defend the right to question is therefore not merely a political duty. It is an act of fidelity to the structure of creation itself.
V. Silencing the Search, Silencing the Finding
Authoritarianism, in its most persistent form, does not merely seek to silence answers it dislikes. It seeks to silence the very act of searching.
The question, the seeking, the wondering—these are intolerable because they suggest that truth is not yet fully possessed, that knowledge is not complete, that authority is not absolute.
Thus, authoritarian power strikes first at the searchers: the scientists, the philosophers, the journalists, the seekers of every kind.
Yet where seekers persist, and truth is found despite them, the authoritarian hand strikes again—this time at the truth itself. Inconvenient findings are erased from records, public data is withdrawn from view, scientific reports are rewritten to serve political ends.
The silencing extends from the human act of questioning to the very realities those questions uncover.
So it has come to pass in our own time: climate science censored, health research distorted, public knowledge reshaped not by the unfolding of discovery but by the fiat of rulers.
In this, the authoritarian spirit reveals its deeper fear: not merely that questions might arise, but that truth might emerge—and stand beyond its grasp.
VI. The Collapse of Meaning: When Words Are No Longer Words
Perhaps the most chilling expression of authoritarianism is not the silencing of speech but the disintegration of meaning itself.
When a government refuses to comply with a Supreme Court order—one plainly written, unambiguous in its demand—by claiming that it does not say what it says, we enter a realm beyond censorship. We enter a space where words no longer signify; where legal language is emptied of content and refilled with the will of power.
This is not merely a constitutional crisis. It is a metaphysical one.
The shared meanings that allow a society to function, to reason, to hold power accountable—these are dissolved.
And in their place arises a new doctrine: that truth is not what is said, but what the ruler claims was meant.
In such a world, there are no longer laws—only declarations. No longer language—only slogans. No longer truth—only the assertion of power over meaning itself.
VII. The Eternal Struggle to Disturb the Hush
The first Why was not a mistake. It was the beginning of the journey, the necessary shattering of silence, the first movement toward wonder.
Those who fear the questioner seek to stop the world from becoming, to freeze it into the shape of their own certainties. They usurp creation itself, not out of strength, but out of terror—the terror that their towers of power might crumble under the lightest whisper of a question.
Yet not all authority need fear the question. Rightly ordered authority—whether of parent, teacher, judge, or priest—can nurture questioning, guiding it without silencing it, guarding freedom without abandoning wisdom.
It is not authority itself that is the enemy of the question, but the corruption of authority into the idolatry of its own certainty.
Nor is the impulse to question so easily extinguished.
Though libraries burn, though words are twisted, though questioners are exiled or slain, the Why rises anew. It survives in secret conversations, in hidden manuscripts, in the defiant wonder of each generation that refuses to accept silence as its inheritance.
To ask Why is to affirm the livingness of being.
To defend the questioner is to defend creation.
To disturb the hush is to proclaim that the world is not finished, that meaning is not the possession of the powerful, that wonder still breathes.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5)
Northcoast Antiquarian 