"I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time.
It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past."
Virginia Woolf— Diary Entry
Time and Memory
Yesterday, I revisited the site of my childhood summers on the island of Bute, where my parents once had a cabin at Bogany Farm in the 1950s and '60s. Walking along those familiar paths, I spoke with the farmer and captured photos of the field that once hosted around 40-50 cabins. Each snapshot seemed to echo with the laughter of campfires, songs, and the cherished camaraderie of summer friends—fleeting escapes from the grey life in Glasgow.
This journey stirred a deep philosophical reflection within me. I pondered the whereabouts of those summer companions. Some have departed this life; others persist, our shared memories lingering like ghosts, even though our paths might never cross again. Life is a mosaic of such transient connections—from those we laughed with under the summer sun to strangers who offered fleeting smiles amidst the hustle of a city.
In the grand march of millennia, these moments are mere specks, yet profoundly significant. We are each a memory, held in the minds of those we've met, a reminder of our shared existence on this earth at the same point in time. This thought is both humbling and elevating, a testament to our brief yet impactful presence in the tapestry of human experience.
When I behold Your heavens,
the work of Your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
what is man that You are mindful of him,
Psalm 8: 3,4 (BSB).
