Unorthodox locale aside, the cottage itself was pretty typical. Cedar plank walls decorated with cheery folk art, eclectic, character-filled furniture, and, of course, a fireplace. Airtight wood stove, to be exact, but that's beside the point. It seems to me that the fireplace is the focal point of any self respecting cottage or cabin, largely due to the activities that typically take place around it: hot chocolate drinking, lively conversations, and awkward attempts by overconfident urbanite males to keep the blaze going with butane and birchbark, to mention a few. A slightly more subtle, but equally fabled, pastime is to sit and watch the flames. Long convinced as a child that this was an affinity reserved for octogenarians in La-Z-Boys, I've only recently begun to appreciate it's appeal myself. There's something mysteriously calming about watching fire - a normally hostile element, but in this case tamed by membranes of brick and metal - eat away at hapless pieces of dead organic matter. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the fact that it's an interest shared by myself and grandfathers the world over implies some sort of intrinsic appeal.
As I sat gazing at the modest little blaze in the Pentelow cottage's living room, it occurred to me that as well as being rather boring and odd, this activity was also characterized by it's blatant uselessness. From a purely practical standpoint, any more than the occasional glance to make sure the fire didn't out - thus exposing us to the rather impractical realities of cold and sickness - really didn't serve any tangible purpose at all. Aside from inciting a fleeting state of relaxation, my act of watching the flames was wholly antisocial, unproductive and materially inconsequential. I'll admit, the fact that I was in the middle of a typical weekend of R&R didn't prevent this realization from being a bit disheartening.
Likely, my unease was largely due to the emphasis I put on the idea of "progress" in my life. I often feel as if the primary goal of my existence is to increase my knowledge, advance my credentials, and expand my influence; when these pursuits begin to feel narcissistic, I confidently reassure myself that they're requisite to my being able to help the maximum number of people possible in the world. The constant need for improvement on my current state at any given time, it seems, dominates my very identity.
Daunting as this conditions sounds, I hardly suspect I'm alone - the need for progress, it seems to me, manifests itself in everyday life everywhere in the world. My mind turns back to the Laotian banknotes I carried throughout my SE Asia travels, and their depiction of bridges, power plants, and factory farms - all symbols of the technological modernization human societies strove after throughout the 20th century. Closer to home, politicians speak of "progress" being made towards states of gender equality and universal human rights; to them, we're set on a linear track, with the sole gear being full speed ahead. The motives that drive these mindsets are often commendable; however, their propagators all-too-often ignore lessons learned from the past, as well as neglect to consider the opinions of those who are perpetually overlooked in our current age.
Even religion, it seems, isn't immune to the influence of the culture of progress. Whereas one might expect followers of Christ, for example, to be inclined towards stillness and introspection, it seems as if they're "on the move" as much as anyone else. I've observed this to be evident in their everyday lives: whether they're fine-tuning the wealth-creation potential their stock portfolios, or ensuring their family's continual financial "security", Christians seem just as concerned with "betterment" as anyone else. The trend is also marked in Christian theological and philosophical thought: an example can be found in C.S. Lewis' influential Mere Christianity, where the author makes the distinction between the "old days" of theology, when it was "possible to get on with a very few simple ideas about God," and today, when a great deal more discretion must be made between good and bad ideas. According to Lewis, "to believe in the popular religion of modern England is retrogression - like believing the earth is flat (Lewis, 155). Although I'm not in the position to oppose his judgement of the "religion of modern England", I do question his apparent bias towards modern ideas. In a recent work, philosopher/theologian James K. A. Smith highlighted the danger this type of "temporal hubris" poses to the development of a healthy Christian worldview (Smith, 135).
In addition to endangering the role the ancients have to play in our everyday lives, I get the feeling this hegemony of progress hampers our ability to live a healthy degree of our lives in the present. Another post for another time - suffice it to say, I'm increasingly convinced many of us move through our lives obsessed with the future, without enough focus on our personal past or future. Stay tuned for a good laugh, as I try to unpack yet another topic way out of my ballpark :)
In summary, progress is ubiquitous. I'd be a fool to lambaste it as general thing; on a basic level, after all, my continuing existence relies on a number of basic biological progressions. Socio-politically, progress is also very real, and, in many ways, good - one of the most admirable applications of the study of history, after all, is it's use to ensure we don't repeat mistakes of the past. All too often, though, it seems that we adhere to a type of progress-regression dichotomy, in which our minds place activities within one of these two categories. As hard as I try, I can't find a place for staring into the fire in either of those categories, leading me to suspect there's something in between.
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