Life at the intersection of faith, nature, history and art
Last night was the rehearsal dinner for my son’s wedding this Saturday. I had the honor to offer a few words and a toast for them at the gathering for family and the wedding party, and while I was writing the toast earlier in the day, these words by the wonderful writer Annie Dillard came to mind:
“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”
If we live our lives well (at least this is the way I define “well”) then we live not in numbness and lethargy and apathy, but fully alive and feeling, aware of the sacred around us, and with an ongoing commitment to living an examined life — one centered on the presence of God, the teachings of Christ, and the power of the individual to change the world in some way, however small. And if we live that way, we should often find ourselves standing at metaphorical thresholds and forks in the road wondering which way to move, for there should always be choices to be made. A life lived well should never be lived on autopilot. To me, the worst kind of life would be one where I felt I had no options.
So here I stand on the threshold of so many decisions and life choices, as well as facing some health challenges and life changes over which I have little or no control, at least on the surface. Of course, we all have choices to make, even if the choice is about how we accept those things that have been thrust upon us.
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Fr. James O’Shaughnessy was young, perhaps newly ordained, Tollers thought, and probably not well educated enough to hold his interest for long. Seminary educations were not what they used to be. In his day priests were renaissance men with sound groundings in several languages, literature and history, in addition to philosophy and theology. But you never know, Tollers thought to himself, he might be good for an hour or two of harmless conversation. They sat across from each other at the small oak table in the middle of Tollers’ tiny dining room, just in front of a large bay window that looked out over the lake. Tollers had set out some cheese, crackers and fruit for a light lunch.
Sue and I own a sloping patch of land in central Missouri where we have a small, 50-year-old weekend cabin on the shore of the Lake of the Ozarks, a sprawling, man-made, spider of a body of water, created by the damming of the Osage River back in 1931 and dotted now with houses and jet skis. But it’s a nice quiet getaway, especially this time of year, when the crowds and most of the loud boats have disappeared for the season. It’s our favorite time of year.
The dam created one of the Midwest’s favorite (and most beautiful!) summer playgrounds, but it no doubt took with it the history and culture of those who lived here before, and I do think of that often. What exactly was right here on our little plot before the dam I cannot say. Maybe just a shady corner of a majestic and ancient forest akin to that which still exists as you move in all directions away from the lake, but perhaps more. Maybe someone’s home, someone’s church, someone’s grave.
And before then? Before the coming of the white man? Perhaps where I sit right now typing on my laptop a young tough-skinned Osage Indian crouched in his very first hunt, his bow drawn and his eyes locked on a 16-point buck making its way gingerly through the trees to drink from a sliver of a stream.
The point is this: We don’t really own the land. We are given the blessing of calling bits and pieces of it “home” for a while, but it belongs to the creator and to the lives of all who have touched it and worked it and walked it over the years.
[Read more…] about The Spirit of a Piece of Land: Nearer My God to Thee
“People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.” — James Baldwin
One day back in the mid-1980s, I was walking through the Missouri Historical Society’s History Museum in St. Louis’ Forest Park. On display was an exhibit of paintings by 19th-century St. Louis artists. They were very nice, I guess. But one painting reached out and grabbed me by the lapels, shook me violently and said, “Pay attention here!” The person portrayed in the painting, Levi Dust, has been with me ever since and has played a key role in several creative endeavors.
The painting, by artist Matthew (Mat) Hastings, showed an older African-American man in the middle of a dirt street, children running around him and tugging at his clothes. In his upraised hand he held a handbell. I was intrigued. What was going on in this picture? I leaned in. How could I not?
[Read more…] about Trapped in History: The Strange Case of Levi Dust