Trust

  

A young fox has moved into my garden. It has a favourite place: the top of the gazebo, on the canvas roof. That is where it likes to curl up. Before it could ruin the covering, I set a larger panel of fencing on top to protect it. Still, it comes. More often than not, I manage to disturb its late-morning siesta.

Its reaction is fascinating. Half and half—there runs through it a flicker of the wild, of unyielding distrust. Yet at the same time, it is endlessly curious. Human presence does not trouble it. It speaks with its eyes: “I want to come closer.” “I am wild, but my curiosity prevails.”

Like shadows of clouds racing swiftly across the fields in the wind, the fox “vibrates” on the edge between wildness and playfulness. No, it will never be tame—for it cannot deny its nature. But like a searching line in a sketch, like a tangent drawing nearer and nearer, it comes to the very border of contact with humanity.

It lives in a parallel world to ours. Its world unfolds by its own laws. Ours—this garden—touches it only in passing moments. These are parallel worlds within Creation. What the fox cannot touch is human history. Yet, as its behaviour shows, this young animal lives within a field of force that pulls upward. An ascent, toward the human world. And through us—perhaps even higher still—though it cannot reach directly into the angelic realm. Its consciousness does not know it, but this “upward-gravity” marks it all the same.

But does there not also exist, beneath the fox-world, a downward-dragging “anti-gravity”? One that seizes us humans. When a person (crucified on the cross of digitality) begins to descend the slope of dehumanisation. I imagine the angel watching from the edge of today’s garden-paradise—how does it see us? As the fox edges toward the threshold of tamability, how do we appear? More and more snarling? Drawn by the blood-scent of violence, of conquest, of small and great revenges? Drawn downward? Further estranged from ourselves?

Listening to the news, the mighty lords of war already speak from a world beneath the human. If we were to learn only the worst from ourselves, wild beasts would speak thus to one another. (To one another? No—at most barking past each other, baring digital tusks.) This is our digital apocalypse, the world of pixelated wars. And the fox I watch in the garden is more than a wild creature strayed among flowers. In that mysterious “upward pull,” it is the four-legged angel of Judgment. (And from below, we are judged.)

 

06.10.2025

 

 

Trust (a second translation)

 

A young fox has taken up residence in my garden. It has chosen a curious spot as its favourite: the canvas roof of the gazebo. There it likes to curl up, nesting into the fabric. To preserve the covering, I placed a large fence panel over the top, hoping to protect it from damage. Still the fox returns, and more often than not I disturb its late-morning rest.

Its reactions are striking. They oscillate between two poles: the instinctive alertness of the wild, and a restless curiosity that overrides its fear. Human presence does not repel it. On the contrary, it seems to communicate through its eyes, as though saying: “I want to draw closer. I am wild, yet my curiosity wins.”

The fox’s presence is not merely an intrusion of nature into a human garden; it embodies the tension between two orders of existence. Like the shadows of clouds racing across fields in the wind, the animal flickers between wildness and play. It will never be tame—for its essence cannot be denied. Yet it approaches the human sphere, like a tangent line converging on the curve it will never meet.

The fox lives in a parallel world. Its life unfolds according to laws that are not ours, yet in fleeting moments our worlds intersect. Within the order of Creation, these are parallel domains that touch only at their edges. What separates us most is human history, which the fox cannot enter. And yet, as its behaviour reveals, this young animal seems to inhabit an upward field of attraction. It gravitates toward us, as though drawn toward the human order, and perhaps even further upward—toward what transcends us. It does not know this consciously, but it is marked by what one might call an “upward gravity.”

But if such an ascent exists, is there not also a counter-force, a “downward gravity,” beneath the animal world, that threatens humanity itself? We are pulled downward whenever our humanity begins to erode—whenever we submit to the disintegration of our being, especially in an age in which we are crucified on the cross of digitality. One imagines an angel, watching from the margins of our present-day Eden: what does it see? If the fox approaches the threshold of tamability, how do we appear? Increasingly violent, marked by snarls and the lust for domination? Drawn not upward but downward, estranged from our true selves?

The news confirms this descent: the rhetoric of the powerful in times of war already speaks from beneath the level of the human. If beasts were to imitate the worst of us, they might bark in this way—though not in dialogue, but merely hurling noises at one another, baring digital tusks. This is the shape of our digital apocalypse, the world of pixelated wars.

In this light, the fox in the garden becomes more than a wild animal strayed into human space. It appears instead as a sign: the four-legged angel of Judgment, whose presence reminds us that even from below, we are being judged.

 

06.10.2025

 

Bizalom

 

Egy fiatal róka költözött be a kertembe. Van egy kedvenc helye. A gazebo tetején, a vászon. Oda szereti bekuckózni magát. Mielőtt tönkre tenné, egy nagyobb kerítéspanel darabot helyeztem fel, hogy ne tegye tönkre a ponyvát. Továbbra is jön. Többnyire sikerül megzavarni délelőtti sziesztáját.

A reakciója érdekes. Fele-fele arányban „vad”, és állandó bizalmatlanság tud átsuhanni rajta. Ugyanakkor végtelenül kíváncsi. Nem zavarja az emberi jelenlét. Szemével kommunikál. „Közelebb szeretnék jönni.” „Vad vagyok, de a kíváncsiságom győz.”

Mint a mezők fölött a szélben gyorsan suhanó felhők árnyéka. A róka így „vibrál” vadság és játékosság határán. Nem, szelíd soha nem lesz, hisz nem tudja meghazudtolni természetét. De mint egy keresővonal egy vázlaton, mint egy egyre közeledő érintővonal, az emberrel érintkezés közelébe jön.

Velünk párhuzamos világban él. Világa történik, a saját törvényei szerint. Világunk, egy kertben, pillanatokra összeér. A Teremtésen belüli párhuzamos világok ezek. Amivel a róka nem tud érintkezni, az az emberi történelem. De, amint viselkedése mutatja, ez a fiatal állat egyfajta felfelé vonzó erőtérben él. Egy emelkedésben, fel, az emberi világ irányába. S rajtunk keresztül, talán még ennél is fentebb, még ha az angyali világgal nem is képes közvetlenül érintkezni. Tudatáig nem jut el, de mégis megjelöli ez a „felfelé-gravitáció”.

De nemde létezik egy, a róka-világ alattiba vonzó „anti-gravitáció”? Ami bennünket, embereket érint. Amikor az ember (a digitalitás keresztjére szegezett), megindul embersége lebomlása lejtőjén. S elképzelem, a jelen-édenkertjének határán szemlélődő angyal hogyan láthat bennünket? Ahogyan a róka meg-közelíti a szelidíthetőség élményét, hogyan nézünk ki mi? Egyre több vicsorgás? Az erőszak, a másik leigázásának, kis és nagyobb bosszúk „vérszaga” az, ami vonz? Lefelé? Önmagunktól távolodva?

A híreket hallgatva, háborús oldalak hatalmasságai, már egy ember alatti világból nyilatkoznak. Ha eltanulnánk tőlünk a legrosszabbat, vadállatok beszélnének így egymáshoz. (Egymással? Nem, maximum egymás felé ugatva és digitális agyart vicsorgatva.) Ez történik digitális apokalipszisünkben, a pixelizált háborúk világában. S a kertben megfigyelt róka, már több, mint kertbe tévedt vadállat. Abban a bizonyos „felfelé vonzásban”: az Ítélet négylábon járó angyala. (Alulról ítéltetünk meg.)

 

06.10.2025