Tuesday, May 3, 2011
A "Dirty" Book Worth Reading
The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love by Kristin Kimball. Read my review here: http://www.alimentumjournal.com/the-dirty-life.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Loving (All) Life?
The Green has come to get us.
Know what I mean? I stand on our deck and see a lawn that's enjoyed day after day of rain and no mower; deciduous trees that are singing a cappella the only way they know how: in color. Emerald, lime, forest-hued. The green is taking over! And in our busy lives, we let it.
Sometimes, I feel like our busyness grows thick stalks of discontent: social malnourishment. And yes: we let it happen. I am part of this relentless Greek chorus. Saying "no" to socially constructed norms takes too much energy. Changing is painful or difficult. We forget what is human. We forget what is Awesome in the original context of the word.
I've been quiet on this blog for the past couple of months because of my own hectic life-weight as I finish my MFA in creative writing and start answering the question that stubbornly waits behind most conversations: "What are you planning to do when you graduate?"
For artists, this question is troubling. After all, shouldn't my answer just be, "I'm going to create something"?
In many ways, we still live in a culture that distrusts a woman who's not sure she wants to be a mother, and I've learned to nod and smile when folks hint that Now, I can start a family. And we live in a world that expects that I'll get a raise or a full-time job when I add another degree to my CV, so I've also learned to be honest only with select folks. People who know me well also know that I question the ethics of two middle-to-upper-class partners bringing home full paychecks when taxes go towards so much destruction (the U.S. has a bigger military budget than most of our allies and enemies combined), and when so many folks within our own borders can't afford their basic needs.
I don't want more stuff: I want more life.
I keep dreaming about a purpose outside of full-time academia. This is a big switch for me, one that's been growing for years. I love teaching...but I don't love many of the layers involved in higher education's potential evolution. A desperate green, in many ways, has come to get us--and it shows. Money, elitism, injustice. Just like peace, violence comes in many forms.
For a few months now, I've been attending "Farm Church." Every Tuesday, a small group of people (and one elderly dog and several attention-hungry cats) gather in a local farmhouse living room for mass. A potluck follows (what I call "real" communion), or walks around the farm, which houses an intentional community and grows produce for local food banks. This place and the people drawn to it-- imperfect but striding forward--give me hope. And yes, the color most associated with hope? Green.
I come from a family and culture of farmers, yet I'm distanced from asking things (other than metaphors, student minds, and song lyrics) to grow. When did this deep disconnect happen? It's a question many contemporary Mennonite families ask from time to time. As Di Brandt writes when considering how to be a "good" Mennonite woman and, at the same time, a poet immersed in the complex greater world: "How can I be both and not fly apart?"
How can I be an American and a pacifist and not fly apart? How can I crave individualism as much as community and not fly apart?
Today, when my heart was heaviest, it helped to remember the pockets of "green" around me. I did not celebrate the murder of bin Laden, a man taught to hate, educated in destruction. My tax dollars, after all, helped this to happen. If you grow terrorism, the crop keeps coming back.
There are other ways to cultivate.
When my grandpa was drafted into WWII, he joined Civilian Public Service, where he parachuted from planes into forest fires in the American West, one of 300 C.O. smokejumpers. He left his farm work to quietly wage peace, unpaid and without parades when he came home. It was an inviting adventure, yes, but choosing life--all life-- was at the root of his identity and faith. Today, we're lucky to hear a peace sermon, even in an historic "peace church." How many Christians (me included) keep Jesus securely on the cross--or in some distant heaven--in order to (sub)consciously ignore his radical life example, his teachings of love and reconciliation?
I often wonder what it would take for our current wars to end or for our dependence on force to shift. For now, I want my daily choices to reflect a call towards life. I can't stop a war on my own. But I can change my life to walk towards peacemaking, perhaps only one gentle nudge at a time.
"I feel our souls all need band-aids right now, but we don't even know it," a friend wrote to me earlier today. We are flying apart...We are flying apart...
Maybe tomorrow, we can stop to catch our breath, can connect to the life--and lives--around us. Beyond us. Maybe it's as simple as learning your neighbor's name. Or bending down to loose a dandelion from your driveway. Any start will do. Any start at all. I believe in a peace that has a vast tiara of roots, even on days when one murderer boasts that (s)he's killed another murderer first.
What are we going to do next? Which way will we reach with more than a little rain?
---------------
To see photos of my grandpa and other Wayne Co. Mennonite men in WWII Civilian Public Service, visit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/peaspoet/sets/72157626333228805/with/5601580909/
Know what I mean? I stand on our deck and see a lawn that's enjoyed day after day of rain and no mower; deciduous trees that are singing a cappella the only way they know how: in color. Emerald, lime, forest-hued. The green is taking over! And in our busy lives, we let it.
Sometimes, I feel like our busyness grows thick stalks of discontent: social malnourishment. And yes: we let it happen. I am part of this relentless Greek chorus. Saying "no" to socially constructed norms takes too much energy. Changing is painful or difficult. We forget what is human. We forget what is Awesome in the original context of the word.
I've been quiet on this blog for the past couple of months because of my own hectic life-weight as I finish my MFA in creative writing and start answering the question that stubbornly waits behind most conversations: "What are you planning to do when you graduate?"
For artists, this question is troubling. After all, shouldn't my answer just be, "I'm going to create something"?
In many ways, we still live in a culture that distrusts a woman who's not sure she wants to be a mother, and I've learned to nod and smile when folks hint that Now, I can start a family. And we live in a world that expects that I'll get a raise or a full-time job when I add another degree to my CV, so I've also learned to be honest only with select folks. People who know me well also know that I question the ethics of two middle-to-upper-class partners bringing home full paychecks when taxes go towards so much destruction (the U.S. has a bigger military budget than most of our allies and enemies combined), and when so many folks within our own borders can't afford their basic needs.
I don't want more stuff: I want more life.
I keep dreaming about a purpose outside of full-time academia. This is a big switch for me, one that's been growing for years. I love teaching...but I don't love many of the layers involved in higher education's potential evolution. A desperate green, in many ways, has come to get us--and it shows. Money, elitism, injustice. Just like peace, violence comes in many forms.
For a few months now, I've been attending "Farm Church." Every Tuesday, a small group of people (and one elderly dog and several attention-hungry cats) gather in a local farmhouse living room for mass. A potluck follows (what I call "real" communion), or walks around the farm, which houses an intentional community and grows produce for local food banks. This place and the people drawn to it-- imperfect but striding forward--give me hope. And yes, the color most associated with hope? Green.
The Good Earth Farm from dan krauss on Vimeo.
I come from a family and culture of farmers, yet I'm distanced from asking things (other than metaphors, student minds, and song lyrics) to grow. When did this deep disconnect happen? It's a question many contemporary Mennonite families ask from time to time. As Di Brandt writes when considering how to be a "good" Mennonite woman and, at the same time, a poet immersed in the complex greater world: "How can I be both and not fly apart?"
How can I be an American and a pacifist and not fly apart? How can I crave individualism as much as community and not fly apart?
Today, when my heart was heaviest, it helped to remember the pockets of "green" around me. I did not celebrate the murder of bin Laden, a man taught to hate, educated in destruction. My tax dollars, after all, helped this to happen. If you grow terrorism, the crop keeps coming back.
There are other ways to cultivate.
When my grandpa was drafted into WWII, he joined Civilian Public Service, where he parachuted from planes into forest fires in the American West, one of 300 C.O. smokejumpers. He left his farm work to quietly wage peace, unpaid and without parades when he came home. It was an inviting adventure, yes, but choosing life--all life-- was at the root of his identity and faith. Today, we're lucky to hear a peace sermon, even in an historic "peace church." How many Christians (me included) keep Jesus securely on the cross--or in some distant heaven--in order to (sub)consciously ignore his radical life example, his teachings of love and reconciliation?
I often wonder what it would take for our current wars to end or for our dependence on force to shift. For now, I want my daily choices to reflect a call towards life. I can't stop a war on my own. But I can change my life to walk towards peacemaking, perhaps only one gentle nudge at a time.
"I feel our souls all need band-aids right now, but we don't even know it," a friend wrote to me earlier today. We are flying apart...We are flying apart...
Maybe tomorrow, we can stop to catch our breath, can connect to the life--and lives--around us. Beyond us. Maybe it's as simple as learning your neighbor's name. Or bending down to loose a dandelion from your driveway. Any start will do. Any start at all. I believe in a peace that has a vast tiara of roots, even on days when one murderer boasts that (s)he's killed another murderer first.
What are we going to do next? Which way will we reach with more than a little rain?
---------------
To see photos of my grandpa and other Wayne Co. Mennonite men in WWII Civilian Public Service, visit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/peaspoet/sets/72157626333228805/with/5601580909/
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)