We've been in a drought here in Minnesota. Thankfully, we’ve had a few rainfalls recently, but we're still not out of it. On the local late evening news a couple weeks ago, a farmer was interviewed who said that any rain that comes now is too late for this year's crops, but it prepares the way for the crops of next year. He called it a recharge. The water that comes will wait deep in the ground to sustain what hasn't even yet been planted.
"That recharge is so important," said the farmer. "You can get by that first year but you got to have something down in the ground for the roots to go after."
This rings of truth for more than the growth of corn and soybeans, as important as that growth is. The next morning I thought about recharging rain as a metaphor and wrote "Anticipatory hydrating" in my journal, "Hydrating for the future." Think of all that needs to be stored up in one's soul, in one's thoughts and habits, to grow the roots that will sustain the future. Taking care to store it up is an act of hope.
Daniel Bowman's On the Spectrum: Autism, Faith, & The Gifts of Neurodiversity
Daniel Bowman, associate professor of English at Taylor University, editor of Relief Journal, has written an important and captivating memoir in essays, On the Spectrum: Autism, Faith, and the Gifts of Neurodiversity (Brazos Press), about his experience as a creative writer, professor, husband, and father after receiving a diagnosis of autism at the age of 35.
Through his experiences, he guides the reader to think about autism not from a pathology model but from a paradigm of neurodiversity.
Here's the thing: Neurodiversity is real, it's not going away, and people ought to be excited about such a momentous breakthrough. We are unveiling layers of mysteries about what it means to be human....
[L]et's be curious; let's be in awe of how complex we all are. Let's get excited when the frontiers of knowledge open up even just a little. And let's be aware of what it means: that for the first time in human history, a certain group of people have a better chance to be understood and affirmed and to get what they need in order to flourish and contribute to the flourishing of the culture. That's a wonderful thing.
After reading Bowman’s book, I’ve been thinking about relationships I’ve mishandled or people I’ve misunderstood. About how easy it is to wrongly assess a person or situation—or to be wrongly assessed oneself. On The Spectrum teaches its readers about autism but it also models and calls out humility and compassion, persistence and calling, friendship and joy.
Benjamin Tucker: Don't Lose Hope
Benjamin Tucker, a musician here in the Twin Cities (and good friend), released a new album this past May, Such Is Love. One of the songs is titled, "Don't Lose Hope."
These three words are repeated again and again, leaving no doubt that whoever listens to and engages with the song should receive the message, clear and strong: Don't lose hope.
The lyrics extend beyond that trio of words but those are what you'll carry with you. Don't lose hope.
You can listen to "Don't Lose Hope" here and watch videos of that and all the other songs on the album here.
How To Do Nothing: Atmospheric Rivers and Directing Our Attention
In the book How To Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy, author Jenny Odell suggests a thought exercise disguised as an art project, which coincidentally, is particularly relevant to the drought that much of the country is in right now, including Minnesota. She suggests putting a small jar outside where you live in order to collect a bit of rainwater next time it rains. Then use that rain water with watercolor paints, cheap from the drugstore, to paint a picture and hang it somewhere you can see it. Or even just sit the filled jar on a windowsill. Odell explains that the reason for this recommendation—apart from the fact that it just may be fun—is to call one's attention to the fact that the rain that falls in our backyards comes from water sources far away from where we live. Water for rain can travel for many miles in "atmospheric rivers." The atmospheric river known as "The Pineapple Express," for example, carries water from the tropics to Western California. I had no idea. Around here, we've had very little rain for the last three months, but a half inch may fall in the next 24 hours. I'm going to put out a little jar and paint a picture from what comes.
(Odell's book, by the way, is about a broader topic than where our rain comes from, and I recommend it. She challenges readers to consider how social media and other media channels can so thoroughly capture our attention, thereby preventing us from directing our attention to those matters to which we want and need to give our attention. The above project is fun and thought-provoking, but the core of the book is here.)
Mary Peelen and Quantum Heresies: On The Eating of a Pear
Back in March I listened to Zoom episodes of the Madeleine L’Engle Seminar “Poetry, Science and the Imagination,” produced by Image and hosted by Brian Volck, every Wednesday over the lunch hour. All five episodes were wonderful, but I was particularly intrigued with Mary Peelen. A science-minded writer, although not a scientist, Peelen has written a book of poems called Quantum Heresies, which I ordered soon after the episode. Her poems are loaded with reflections on chaos theory, parabolic arcs, chromosomes, supernovas, gravity, algebraic variables, and a myriad of other images that become metaphors for life.
In the poem titled “One,” she writes of a pear. An ordinary pear.
When I come to you
offering one small green pear,
I’m asking you to believe in
every green there is,
at every hour.
The whole tree.
This past year we’ve been eating a lot of pears and until reading this poem I never once thought about the trees from which they came. Do I even know what a pear tree looks like? In what town did the trees grow? What state? What did the field of pear trees look like? Each pear existed and grew on a specific branch on a specific whole tree in a specific location under a specific square of sky and was picked by a specific set of human hands belonging to a specific person and packed into a specific box before being loaded onto a specific truck and on and on before it finally arrived at my house and was bitten into by me.
The thought exercise may seem inconsequential, but it does open up a point of wonder, a point of connection to a world beyond my appetite, my refrigerator, my grocery store. Multiply this exercise by all the different things you eat during the day—an egg, an onion, a steak perhaps—and the world rapidly expands yet keeps one in a web of provision.
Two small green pears are now sitting on my kitchen counter. While waiting for them to soften a bit before eating, I’m wondering where they’ve been.
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[Photo: “Three Pears” by Paul Cézanne; copyright free via the National Gallery of Art]
Sprinklers and Robins in Times of Drought
Here in Minnesota, as in much of the United States, we’re in a drought. While watering of lawns is discouraged, strategic watering along the root zone of trees is encouraged, and so we’ve set up this old sprinkler to occasionally deliver a small targeted dose to our beloved teenaged river birch tree lest it fail to thrive. Yesterday, shortly after the sprinkler was turned on, a family of robins appeared and stood and shook their feathers under the falling streams. This smaller female stayed around longer and was particularly intent on getting what she needed. A drink. Can you see her sticking her beak in the spray, right at the source? She drank again and again. I’m so glad I got this shot; I’m so glad she got some water. This morning I read a poem in Christian Wiman’s collection, “Joy.” The poem is by Norman MacCaig and is called “One of the Many Days.” Here’s the line that jumped out at me: “I watched / a whole long day / release its miracles.”
Participating Faithfully in a World Being Remade
Given all that’s going on in our communities and in the world, it's a good time to think about—but then, it's always a good time to think about—the value of putting a body of work out into the world that aims for a common good beyond yourself, no matter your job title (including retired), industry, or the size and grandiosity or lack thereof of that body of work, as long as it's what you have to give.
If you're in need of inspiration or camaraderie, let me suggest you peruse the writings from Breaking Ground, a year-long, online, publishing project led by Cardus that started in May of last year, when tensions of multiple varieties were escalating: viral, racial, socioeconomic, political. The project, which started as "first and foremost an act of hope,” had the goal of "galvanizing the Christian imagination from a wide array of voices to equip tomorrow’s leaders, thinkers and caring citizens to participate faithfully in a world being remade."
Although the project recently ended, per its original plan, rather than simply stopping the work the editors have passed the baton to their readers. The goal, now individualized, becomes how can each of us, from a base of Christian imagination, participate faithfully in a world being remade? I think that's quite a good question to ask ourselves, regardless of whether you've read any of the Breaking Ground writings. How can I—how can you—from a base of Christian imagination, participate faithfully in a world being remade?
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[Photo: Eric Carle, children's book author and illustrator whose great body work brought much good into the world, died last month. Many of Carle's books have been on our bookshelves over the years. This picture of two pelicans is from Animals Animals. A number of pages in this book are falling out, it's been read so many times.]