"Every good farmer practices, even though [she] may not undertand clearly, the principle of Reverence for Life, and in this [she] is among the most fortunate of people, for she lives close enough to Life to hear the very pulsations of the heart, which are concealed from those whose lives are concentrated upon the unbalanced shabbiness of the completely material" (Louis Bromfield. From My Experience: The Pleasures and Miseries of Life on a Farm. New York: Harper and Bros., 1955. pg. 349).
I guess I have been sort of hard of hearing, really. Or, perhaps, as my spiritual director Sr. Mary would put it, I sometimes have "selective hearing". It has taken me a while to compost the "pulsations of the heart" that have been around me in the earth, until lately.
I went to bed last night reading about, well, soil. Wait! Don't stop reading the blog yet. I was reading a chapter on building topsoil in Bromfield's book and some things came to the surface for me.
I don't have a particular interest in soil --dirt, maybe. I don't even like to have soil on my hands or especially under my fingernails (yes, I am a glove gardener). What fascinates me about soil, is that it is its own secret world. There is stuff happening down there!
I have been fascinated by that which lies just below the surface, always. I'm always looking deeper. As you have no doubt noticed, sometimes this is at the expense of what is happening right in front of me! Reading about soil, thinking about my deep relationship to the earth has made me see these patterns. I began thinking about Wendell Berry.
I met Wendell Berry in 1989. He and I shared an elevator ride up to the 13th floor (Yes, the English Department at the University of Kentucky is on the 13th). I think we joked about how we should be taking the stairs. I was a new student at UK, just beginning my M.A. in English, going to my very own office (T.A.s were treated really well then) for the first time.
Professor Berry's office was, it turned out, next door to mine. I had no idea who he was. He was a nice guy. A professor. He had a great sense of humor. Over the two years I was at UK, we chatted and joked and talked. It wasn't until I had graduated from UK that I started hearing people talking about Professor Berry with awe. I knew he was a writer, a farmer, a good poet, but I didn't know how famous he was. I'm glad I didn't know-- I might have not had the experience I had. I didn't see what was right in front of me. Perhaps our paths will cross again, who knows?
Then I began thinking about my daily walk to school from my apartment that was about a mile away. I had to teach at 9:00 a.m., so I would leave the apartment at 7:00 a.m. so I could prep. and have some coffee in my office. I always walked past the tobacco warehouses. In the winter, the smell of drying tobacco was fabulous. The warehouses were dimly lit, and wide open; it seemed warm, and it was pretty quiet. It was earthy and slightly mysterious. It smelled like something deep and basic. I suppose it reminded me of all the pipe smokers I was around as a child-- and I loved it. I even smoked a pipe for a while at UK (Professor Berry might remember that about me! Just tobacco, kids).
Now when I read Wendell Berry's books, I think of my time walking by the tobacco warehouses, which are no doubt closed by now. As I plant more and more gardens, I think about these early roots and the call of the land.
Every once in a while I have a cigar, but I gave up my pipe.
