HEALING

Many years ago, I had the pleasure of speaking to Wendell Berry, by telephone, with the idea of coming to see him, when I was lecturing in his home state of Kentucky.   He was most kind, but the event never happened.  Here is a poem of his I love, which is perhaps more appropriate today then when he wrote it many years ago.

He believes that small-scale farming is essential to healthy local economies, and that strong local economies are essential to the survival of the species and the well-being of the planet. For us who farm on a "small scale" his words of wisdom have meaning.

In a “New Perspectives Quarterly”  interview Wendell  said: We must support what supports local life, which means community, family, household life—the moral capital our larger institutions have to come to rest upon. If the larger institutions undermine the local life, they destroy that moral capital just exactly as the industrial economy has destroyed the natural capital of localities—soil fertility and so on. Essential wisdom accumulates in the communitymuch as fertility builds in the soil.”

He has written many books of  fiction, essays  and poetry.  His poetry celebrates the sacredness of life and shows us miracles of every day, often taken for granted. 

The Slip 

The river takes the land, and leaves nothing.
Where the great slip gave way in the bank
and an acre disappeared, all human plans
dissolve. An aweful clarification occurs
where a place was. Its memory breaks
from what is known now, and begins to drift.
Where cattle grazed and trees stood, emptiness
widens the air for birdflight, wind, and rain.
As before the beginning, nothing is there.
Human wrong is in the cause, human
ruin in the effect—but no matter;
all will be lost, no matter the reason.
Nothing, having arrived, will stay.
The earth, even, is like a flower, so soon
passeth it away. And yet this nothing
is the seed of all—heaven’s clear
eye, where all the worlds appear.
Where the imperfect has departed, the perfect
begins its struggle to return. The good gift
begins again its descent. The maker moves
in the unmade, stirring the water until
it clouds, dark beneath the surface,
stirring and darkening the soul until pain
perceives new possibility. There is nothing
to do but learn and wait, return to work
on what remains. Seed will sprout in the scar.
Though death is in the healing, it will heal.