“Our virtues now are the high and horrible
Ones of a streaming wound which heals in evil.”
— Roy Fuller, “Autumn 1942,” found in Richard Adams' Tales from Watership Down
“Peace maketh plenty;
Plenty maketh pride;
Pride maketh plea;
Plea maketh povert;
Povert maketh peace.”
— Anonymous, 15th Century, from the Oxford Book of Short Poems (plea = lawsuit)
Sorry Professor, I am late again. Although I suppose since I am my own Professor I can give myself an extension since our family has had one sickness or other for what seems like all of November, and we're still sick. Thanksgiving saw over eleven people in our house. It was good but crazy, and while we took some steps to prepare for upcoming life changes there still remains a lot of uncertainty that can't be helped. I have been dwelling on the cost of the American Dream and the horrible virtues our culture encourages us to develop. I have seen the richest people I know enslaved to their wealth and desire, and on my smaller scale I have seen it happen to me. Thank God I don't have enough to get lost to it, and thank God He reminds me daily to struggle against greed. How very rich the average American is compared to the humanity of a hundred years ago, and yet how very wretched we seem for it. For it seems the only way we can heal the streaming wound of greed is to buy more and do more and present more and live in denial of death. I suppose I ought to be more cheerful in a season of hope, but I have been sick for about two weeks with a respiratory virus that is going away ever so slowly, and my duties seems to close more and more tightly around the little time I have to write and be creative. I look forward to Christmas break, and I hope we can truly make it a break instead of a mad dash, because we really need it.
“And however you want people to treat you, treat them the same way. If you love only those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even criminals love those who love them! If you [in fact] treat well only those who treat you well, what credit is that to you? Even criminals do the same. And if you lend only to those from whom you hope to get the loan back, what kind of credit [is] that to you? Even criminals lend to other criminals, meaning to get back an equal amount. No, love your enemies and be helpful and lend without the hope of getting anything back. Then your payment will be generous, and you'll be sons of the highest one, because he's gracious to the ungrateful and to those full of mischief.”
— Jesus, The Gospel According to Loukas 6:31-35, Sarah Ruden translation
Perhaps I should write something about politics because today is election hangover day, but if there was not an election I would still be sitting down to write this update, so write it I will. I am a few days late because our family has been dealing with some health issues that required most of my time and energy. They are mostly resolved, and we are on our way to a sort of normalcy, but there is still a constant stress. The election has not helped. My wife and I voted early, and looked up the results this morning. Bah humbug. It is an evil to me that politics can goad the most lovely, generous, and kind people into such hateful speech and action. It is all the more evil to me when I read the words of Jesus, and see Christians worrying themselves and everyone around them to death. Those words “love thine enemy” have never been easy to follow, but they are the only words which I believe worth sharing about this mess. Don't forget that Jesus told this to Jews oppressed by a Roman regime that could crush and steal everything they owned with impunity. It would have been much more shocking to hear for them, which does not mean our troubles are not troubles. What it means is that the words of Jesus are no less relevant today than they were yesterday. So “love thine enemy,” and “take heart! I have overcome the world.”
When I do count the clock that tells the time
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,
When I behold the violet past prime
And sable curls all silvered o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defense
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
— Shakespeare's Sonnet 12
Fall comes and reminds us that we all must face decay, and that there is beauty in it. Since decay in the circle of life means renewal. And yet, in spite of Nature's constant reminders we continue, seemingly, to dally with the easy pleasures of notifications and new pieces of plastic, glass, and metal delivered weekly to our porches. What would archaeologists think of all these rectangular mirrors we gaze at constantly? Does it matter?
The summer has come and gone. It is amazing how long and how short two months can feel. I am glad that my wife and I decided not to travel during the summer, because it felt like a real summer. The transition back to school has been lower stress, but it is still a big schedule change, and I haven't handled the hours alone (with baby) as well as I would like. Still, it is nice to have more or less predictable work times (baby naps). Though they are not always work time, since there are chores, and sometimes I am just tired (or mischievous). Have been ruminating on a quote from Steinbeck in the East of Eden Journals, in which he says that “one must distort one's way of life in order in some sense to simulate the normal in other's lives,” because sitting down to write is a distortion of life, but one I can't seem to live without for very long. If I were normal I wouldn't view baby naps as “writing time,” but then, how many of us are really normal?
The more I write, the more I am convinced that the most important trait required is grit. Natural talent and curiosity give you a place to start, but even the most gifted person won't finish their book without grit. There are so many pitfalls and barriers — “I don't have any idea what should happen next,” “I don't like anything I've been able to draft,” “I don't feel inspired.” — and the only thing that gets you past them is to just keep pushing on, no matter how feeble or uninspired your efforts feel. Keep doing it every day, and when you break your daily streak, just pick it up again instead of punishing yourself.
Our country has two anthems.
One the official, bloodstained tribute.
One the dream we have yet to earn.
For the Star Spangled Banner still tramples
on the hireling and the slave
in this beautiful land where
grace and blood are shed
in equal measure.
“But I still believe that the unexamined life is not worth living: and I know that self-delusion in the service of no matter what small or lofty cause, is a price no writer can afford. His subject is himself and the world and it requires every ounce of stamina he can summon to attempt to look on himself and the world as they are.”
— James Baldwin, Introduction to Nobody Knows My Name
June has gone and summer is officially in progress. For the husband of a teacher the summer is more than an atmosphere shift around his daily routine. It is an expansion of the world. Projects become possible and time seems to be more forgiving. For a writer this should mean faster and better progress on his sequel... Shouldn't it?
I'm still alive. Work has been ongoing on the novel, album, podcast, audiobook. It is now the last week of school (you keep close track when your wife is a teacher). I have too many projects. Staying home this summer, but planning on doing work on the house/property. Don't know when I'll find time for my selfish writing/music projects. Mind is uncooperative and greedy and worried about money and a thousand other things. Seems we have to try so hard just to enjoy the treasures God has given in this life. “I can't go on. I'll go on.”
April was tough. I have nothing to complain about, and yet my mind has been restless, writing has been like banging my head against a brick wall, and my confidence in my guitar playing has plummeted. I was more or less productive, but I haven't felt fulfilled and it has been hard to be still and content. I have such great personal ambition, and yet my time and skill is so limited that I get stuck in this cycle of pride and self-criticism that makes it difficult to find joy in creativity. This month I will try to remember that I am not doing any of this to achieve something great. I am doing it because I love it. The process is its own reward.
This is the eternal renewal.
– Virginia Woolf
This phrase from the end of The Waves has been hanging in my mind lately. How everyday we are renewed when we sleep and wake, how relationships fade and then renew as we separate and come back together, how creative energy waxes and wanes, how we celebrate Easter to remember that the tomb is empty.
“Yes, this is the eternal renewal.” And yet even on the mountain of renewal, we remember that we will go down again, that joy is sometimes a plodding thing that we do not know we have until we have been carrying it for some time. Writing, like life, is no paved way. It requires endurance and eternally renewed hope.