(in the ancient Roman calendar) a day falling roughly in the middle of each month (the 15th day of March, May, July, and October, and the 13th of other months), from which other dates were calculated.
“Other days are calculated”? Guessing in fortnights.
Today is the most famous calendared middle other than a Solstice or an Equinox: those middies of Light and Dark ascending or mostest points, take you pick.
I am not in the middle of much, not the time living in our home, or of my temporal time or of my career. I may live another 33 years in my house, and 94 may be a reasonable check-out time. But in marriage if this is our Equinox then 98 is a Big Ask for Last Call. I guess I could practice architecture at 101, but the results for Frank Lloyd Wright in his 90’s were mixed.
But I am perpetually in the middle, sentenced to it, really, of understanding much more than things like ides or measures of sunlight.
Even though, even if lucky, I am playing in the middle of the Third Quarter, I must confess it’s kick-off every day for defining things like mission, or meaning, or even methods of getting to understanding.
I effort that understanding with absurdities like this Lenten Pedalling To Nowhere: A 40 day cranking on a recumbent bike (did I tell you it was at Level 23 – the “11” of Exercise Equipment Levels?) for 90 minutes in silence as I tap on this pad. I am not even in the middle of these 40 days.
“It is finished” happens only once in a lifetime.
Although not limited to a play, the Ides of any month mark passage, not finish: thus beyond months, I think I am perpetually, permanently in the ides of this life, until I am not.