The Bascom is closed today due to Irma routing her way through the southeastern states. Roads are
closed, trees and limbs are down & the town is quiet. The last few weeks conversations with several individuals back home and in Highlands have run with a similar theme - providence & sovereignty. Big words, yes. Huge concepts, yes. In each of these conversations we haven't named them as such. I haven't shared with many until now - but the transition here has consisted of some challenges. Some expected, many very unexpected -- none the less these struggles to adjust have served as channels to remind me (through dear friends & even new ones) that there is a bigger picture here.
Even in all the wrongs of this world (deceptive relationship, politics in organizations, racism, human trafficking, and even natural disasters), there is a bigger picture which this current situation (insert circumstance) remains only a small thread of the larger canvas. Currently, there may be discomfort, frustration, bitterness, anger, sorrow & pain -- there be it times for such -- but there is also hope that this is a season. Realizing some of these things for me in this current moment has given me desire to look past the unknown with joy.
Below is a poem that continues to reverberate in my head from Wendell Berry. Ironically, it's titled, The Slip. I've currently been working with various slip techniques in the studio, but Mr. Berry is
certainly speaking to a different application of the word. Regardless, it's found its way on some of my work recently - various phrases. I trust it will bring some of you hope and reflection as you
T h e S l i p
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 awful clarification occurs where a place was. Its memory breaks from what is known now, 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–the clear eye of Heaven, 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.