Yesterday, while ice skating, I was thinking about time. The life of a human being, geologically speaking, is famously short. Seventy or eighty or ninety years–what’s that compared to, say, the 165 million years that dinosaurs walked upon the earth?
From the perspective of a middle-aged person, the life of a sun with its span of 10 billion years is infinite. And yet it’s not. Our sun is middle-aged, too. Isn’t that weird? And so time has passed for the sun, about half its life already. And the rest will continue to pass, the sun at some point dying, the earth and all the sister planets left cold and lifeless.
The universe will end, too. It also has a birth and a death. So, from my middle-aged human perspective, I wonder what God (as author) will do next. I think of this, you see, because I wonder what I’ll write next.
In terms of size, human beings are about half-way from the smallest particles to the largest things in the universe. There is an old Hasidic saying: a person should walk around with a message in each pocket: one note says, “You are dust and ashes”; the other note says, “You are the centre the universe.”