Ever since discovering Aaron Jasinski more than a decade ago I’ve followed his work. I think he’s got a remarkable style, and probably my favorite piece of his is A Prayer to Memory:

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I ordered a print of this recently and had it framed. It’s not hanging anywhere yet, but it will eventually. This is “far out” compared to most of the other stuff I’ve thought enough of to frame.

It captured my attention because I think it captures a bit of the wonder of childhood, when the wide universe was still mysterious and indeterminate. (Of course, the nature of reality remains mysterious and indeterminate even as we grow and our confidence in our scientific knowledge grows. We still lack insight into the essential nature of reality—into the reason for nature.) I want to more consciously rekindle the wonder that makes our youth so remarkable, and this piece has that effect on me.

This also reminded me of C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy novels that I read a few years ago. Specifically, it reminded me of a passage from Chapter 13 in the final book in the series, “That Hideous Strength: A Modern Fairy-Tale for Grown-ups:”

“Have you ever noticed,” said Dimble, “that the universe, and every little bit of the universe, is always hardening and narrowing and coming to a point?” …

“If you dip into any college, or school, or parish, or family—anything you like—at a given point in its history, you always find that there was a time before that point when there was more elbow room and contrasts weren’t quite so sharp; and that there’s going to be a time after that point when there is even less room for indecision and choices are even more momentous. Good is always getting better and bad is always getting worse: the possibilities of even apparent neutrality are always diminishing. The whole thing is sorting itself out all the time, coming to a point, getting sharper and harder…”

“Everything is getting more itself and more different from everything else all the time…”

Aaron Jasinski captures what I imagine was that point that lingers someplace in our memories when everything was a bit softer. When there was more elbow room. When the contrasts weren’t quite so sharp. When everything was a little less itself, yet even in memory’s fog of our vanishing years inexplicably still feels a little closer to reality.