There are voices to trust and others that feel unsafe. Someone who has suffered, I trust nearly instantaneously because they have reflected on a great mystery. They have understood, like Job, that they occupy a certain place in the unfolding of the universe and it is not all explainable.
In the past months I have been reading modern classics. I didn’t realize this until yesterday when I was investigating the back cover of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and it was called just that, a modern classic. John Yoder’s The Politics of Jesus has received similar credits, but said to be a non-classic because it is too good and uncategorizeable—I picked up my 7th copy this week, can’t wait to give it away. Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is so good but feels unoriginal set next to Walden and On the Road I don’t plan to finish because I don’t think it is going anywhere, which I kind of like—so maybe I am just saving it for a day I feel more existential. What draws me to these works is something they all share, that is; there are voiced from a place. They “imagine in place”[1] without feeling the need to explain why it is they write from this disposition. They are masters of the mundane and express the god honest truth full of color and texture as they see it drift by. Their not dramatic, which I appreciate. Also, they know their descriptions have a contribution while being disciplined enough and wise enough to back away from the whole, never offering a unified theory if you will.
I ran into a former student today. The reason I noticed her was due to listening in on a conversation and having the thought, “wow, that person is really thoughtful,” but also, I was interested in the conversation they were having. When you catch up with someone you haven’t seen in years or just get reintroduced to someone (like the friend from elementary school I also saw today) you find yourself asking questions of that person you would hate for someone to ask you. Like, “What are you doing these days.” Or worse, “What do you do now.” I often feel like my jobs and experiences are getting less interesting, as if I’m arriving somewhere I never have been aiming at. It hit me not to long ago, however, that we are becoming who we are not yet. Who you want to be when you grow up assumes a unified theory to who you are and a mold to fit that person into. I said to my friend that the next ten years I expect to be doing several things. This was the first time I ever answered the question, “what do you want to do,” like that. She totally got what I was trying to say, which is good because I’m not sure I did.
[1] Wendell Berry, Imagination in Palce –a resent one.
