The Grinch had a problem: his heart was too small. And so, the story goes, he couldn’t experience joy. Worse than that, the Grinch could not tolerate it. It grated on the Grinch like nails against a chalkboard when the Whos in Whosville displayed public signs of wonder, peace, and forgiveness. Because like all the scrooges and humbugs of oral and written traditions, the Grinch was mean-spirited. Selfish. Close-hearted.
It is easy to feel a certain Grinch-ness in 2020. We all have ample reasons to gripe. The whole world is semi-justified to wallow in some self-pity, annoyance, and smallness of being.
And yet yesterday I heard the birds singing. While their song may have been more instructional or perhaps motivational (See it there, that twig? That’s the one! Please bring it here. Yes!), it was definitely comforting, reassuring. Nature and its cycles still encircle us. Trees in the northern hemisphere gird for winter. Sap that will rise in the spring feels assured. On the solstice, the sun and its daylight will once again begin their slow return.
Last month, on Thanksgiving, a few family members and friends tested a new tradition: a poetry yam. Not being prepared for a proper poetry slam, we punned on the seasonal food and gathered via zoom to read or recite from memory a small slice of truth oft nestled within the arms of verse. Today, on the eve of potential calamity from pandemic and social discord, my wife’s selection, The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry, resonates. When I read the words of its remembrances, I can feel myself settle.
“when despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”
Still water often surrounds us. We have only to seek it out, to listen for its inaudible pulse, to feel its presence with our spiritual beings.
Have you heard about Hands across the hills, a dialogue about understanding and peace created by two communities in Kentucky and Massachusetts (https://www.handsacrossthehills.org)? Organizers from both communities were interviewed this past Wednesday by Don Berwick from the Institute for Healthcare Improvement (IHI) during his annual keynote address (virtually-delivered) of the IHI Forum. The interview, and their story, is magical. People from vastly different communities, traditions, and political views crafted a conversation that has helped bridge divides. Even more impressive, people who might otherwise stereotype, avoid, and perhaps vilify each other have learned that they like, respect, and can learn to love one another – as human beings, as fellow travelers of this thing we call a lifetime, as people who sometimes “wake in the night at the least sound” and tax our lives with “forethought of grief”.
I feel great solace in the discovery of this inspiring project. I find sincere comfort in knowing that Wendell Berry – and perhaps you too – awake in the night at the least sound. I cherish the release available to us all, the rest and grace that is still ours to share, if we can only relearn and believe in the power of joy.
There is no shame for compassion shrunken from sadness, despair, and anxiety. From the soundless ripple of still water, however, it is time we collectively refind and refresh our common humanity, purpose, and spiritual poise. This December, yes especially this December and this year, let us feel the song of life singing all around us. Let us forget our reasons to be angry, hurtful, and small.
Let our hearts swell.
Well said, Mark!!