A Good Life: Longing

A friend of mine, Tim Keel, who pastors a church in Kansas City, has invited readers of his blog to join him in a Blog Book Club centered on Robert Benson's A Good Life: Benedict's Guide to Everyday Joy. I've decided to join his BBC, and rather than ramble away in the comments section on Tim's blog, I figure I'll use my own (nearly abandoned) blog for my rambles and confine my comments on Tim's blog to more focused responses generated in response to Tim and others. This way, I get back into the habit of thinking about my blog, and no one on Tim's blog will have to read my ramblings if they don't want to do so.

The BBC is structured around one chapter in Benson's book each week. Check out Tim's blog if you'd like to follow--or participate in--the larger discussion. What follows are some of my thoughts on Benson's chapter 1, titled "Longing."




The Big Picture:


I found myself really enjoying this first chapter, and I can tell that I'm soon going to have to come to a decision about whether I'm going to restrict myself to reading and digesting a chapter a week or go ahead and reading the whole book and then working back through it. (I'm leaning toward the latter, at this point.)


Benson begins the chapter by quoting a passage from the Rule of St. Benedict, including this key sentence: "Is there anyone who yearns for life and desires to see good days?" It's hard to imagine someone not answering that question with a hearty "yes." But a few pages later, where Benson articulates a number of questions connected with the focus of his retreats, he mentions the question of our practices and experiences being "dry and lifeless" (6). This past Sunday, I was talking with my wife about the fact that I just kind of felt "dry" at the moment--pulled in enough directions that I'm not really sure what I'm working towards. Oh, there's plenty to do, but I'm not sure I currently have anything but the most conventional and trite answers to Buechner's formulation of "a self to be, ... other selves to love, and ... work to do" (qtd. in Benson 4).

This season of dryness--and Benson's mention of it--prompted some thinking about longing, the title of this first chapter. And it causes me to reconsider that key sentence from St. Benedict: "Is there anyone who yearns for life and desires to see good days?" The answer, for me, is "yes," but I'm not sure my "yes" rises to a longing. Now, part of my situation is rooted, I think, in the fact that I'm just not one terribly inclined to longing. A tendency toward contentedness is in my nature--most days. I think. But perhaps I'm just reconciling my apathy, or some degree of acedia. At one point, I noted in the margins of the book that my "longing" seems more like a "welcome obligation." I could cite some other passages that generated similar responses for me, but I'll simply note that this first chapter has me attempting to map the distance between dryness and longing.


Apart from reflecting upon my own spiritual condition, I also found myself thinking about the whole emphasis on spiritual formation from a more institutional standpoint. In the excerpt from St. Benedict quoted at the beginning of Benson's chapter, St. Benedict notes that "We intend to establish a school for the Lord's service" (1). Since I teach at a school with a similar mission, the chapter has prompted a consideration of how the Benedictine rule might inform what I do as a teacher. Consider the following passage:

"We are asked by the communities of which we are a
part--our families, our neighborhoods, our churches, and all the rest--to do
more, not less. In the places where we work, we are asked to be more
productive, more efficient, to work longer and harder. We are seldom
encouraged to rest and we are seldom asked to slow down." (4)

Are there ways in which I, as a teacher, might--or ought to--ask my students to rest, to slow down? How might one ask students to embrace such rest in ways that are wise rather than foolish? How does one ask students to slow down while maintaining professional and pedagogical integrity?


Basically, after chapter one, I find I'm asking myself lots of meaningful questions, and I'm eager to dive into the reflection that will surely be generated as Benson addresses the four "pieces" of life: prayer, rest, community, and work (6).




Other Tidbits:

I have to acknowledge my annoyance over Benson's failure to provide any sort of bibliography for the works from which he is quoting. As a book person, I just find this practice terribly annoying and frustrating.

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Annie Dillard rocks. The passage that has stuck with me the most after reading chapter one comes (I think) from Dillard's The Writing Life:

"How we spend our day is, of course, how we spend our
lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are
doing. A schedule defends us from chaos and whim. It is a net for
catching days."

As one who struggles with schedules (less with construction, more with observance), this quotation just sort of resonates. Conviction and inspiration.

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Robert Benson: "I am also in search of enough good days to make a life, maybe even a good life."

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Potential T-Shirt: "Feed Your Inner Monk!"

"Over time, I realized that I was not called to live
in the monastery, but I learned that I could live the monastic life interiorly"
(10).

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I had to smile at a bit of verbal playfulness on Benson's part when he referenced Thomas More:

"Thomas More, a writer who lived in the monastic
world, said, 'In the midst of our lives we can live the spirit of this
rule.' More and more, I am coming to see that is true." (13)

Settlement

Okay. I’ve decided that I really need to get (back?) into the habit of using this blog. Given the fact that I’m reading a lot of Wendell Berry for a presentation at the 2007 Midwest Writing Centers Association (MWCA) regional conference in October, this decision means that this blog is going to seem like a Berry blog for a while.

After talking with Liberty about my summer reading, I’ve decided that I’m going to alternate between Berry’s collection of short stories titled That Distant Land and his collection of essays titled The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays of Wendell Berry (ed. Norman Wirzba). I just finished reading the essay titled “The Unsettling of America,” in which Berry sheds the dichotomy between conqueror and victim for the terms exploitation and nurture.

Let me outline as briefly as I can what seem to me the characteristics of these opposite kinds of mind. I conceive a strip miner to be a model exploiter, and as a model nurturer I take the old-fashioned idea or ideal of a farmer. The exploiter is a specialist, an expert; the nurturer is not. The standard of the exploiter is efficiency; the standard of the nurturer is care. The exploiter’s goal is money, profit; the nurturer’s goal is health—his land’s health, his own, his family’s, his community’s, his country’s. Whereas the exploiter asks of a piece of land only how much and how quickly it can be made to produce, the nurturer asks a question that is much more complex and difficult: What is its carrying capacity? (That is: How much can be taken from it without diminishing it? What can it produce dependably for an indefinite time?) The exploiter wishes to earn as much as possible by as little work as possible; the nurturer expects, certainly, to have a decent living from his work, but his characteristic wish is to work as well as possible. The competence of the exploiter is in organization; that of the nurturer is in order--a human order, that is, that accommodates itself both to other order and to mystery. The exploiter typically serves an institution or organization; the nurturer serves land, household, community, place. The exploiter thinks of numbers, quantities, “hard facts”; the nurturer in terms of character, condition, quality, kind.(39)

Berry prefers these terms, in part, because they “describe a division not only between persons but also within persons” (39). When I consider this division in my professional life, I have to confront the fact that I serve--in some capacity--“an institution or organization.” Thankfully, my role as professor and director of a writing center place me in the service of the people who come to the university. I get to be one of the nurturers (I hope) within the institution. But, I can’t help wondering when and how I slide into the role of exploiter. For example, when do I find myself thinking in terms of the writing center (as institution) rather than the writers we seek to serve? When do I find myself thinking of my students in terms of “how much and how quickly [they] can be made to produce”? To what degree does the nature of the institution (generally or specifically) enable me to think, act, and live as nurturer rather than exploiter?

A classroom of students can respond just as unpredictably as a piece of land, and that response is tied to a whole bunch of variables--some of which are outside of the farmer’s/teacher’s influence. But the analogy breaks down when one considers that those students--individually and collectively--have a will that one doesn’t find in a piece of land. Students, too, can find themselves wrestling with the divisions between exploiter and nurturer. Thus, in addition to self-examination, one must end up asking how to help shape a community that tends toward nurturing.

Berry asserts that the answers (to his questions, at least) "are to be found in our history: in its until now subordinate tendency of settlement, of domestic permanence" (45). What does "settlement" look like for a professor? For a student? For a writing center? For communities--like institutions of higher education--that depend upon recurrent waves of students with an ambitious and decidedly unsettled eye toward the horizon?

Remembering

One of the things I love about my life and the purposes and people it includes, is the potential for convergence--between...what? ...plotlines? ...themes? When one's life is dominated by story, a certain intertextuality just seems to occur more often. I suppose the same happens for other folks with other jobs, but the frequency of those moments just seems higher due to my life as a teacher and a reader.

Tonight, during (literally) a couple minutes of reading while I was waiting for my wife, who was waiting to switch laundry before coming to bed, a couple of plotlines intersected. And in this case, as in many others, Wendell Berry helped usher me to the crossroads.

First, as part of the board for the Midwest Writing Centers Association (MWCA), I'm working on the proposal review stage for our conference in October 2007. My own proposal focuses on literary worlds and how literary places--like Berry's Port William--might generate questions or perspectives that could inform our work in writing centers.

Second, even though there is still a solid month and tons of grading and a million other things to be done before this semester is over, I've been wrestling with that melancholy which arises when I realize students whom I admire, respect, and treasure--students who come as close to being friends as the barriers of age and institutional position will allow--are on the verge of leaving campus. Such melancholy is wholly selfish, of course, but I suppose that is part of what makes it notable.

Then, tonight, I picked up Berry's collection of short stories titled This Distant Land, mostly to preview quickly before bed, in hopes of getting an early start on actually developing the project for the conference. I got through the epigraph, and now I'm staying up late to write this blog post. Here's the epigraph, which will probably end up becoming an inscription on a graduation card or two. The epigraph is a passage from Berry's novel titled Remembering, and the formatting is in the original.

Oh that I should ever forget We stood by the wagon saying goodbye or trying to & I seen it come over her how far they was a going & she must look at us to remember us forever & it come over her pap and me and the others We stood & looked & knowed it was all the time we had & from now on we must remember We must look now forever Then Will rech down to her from the seat & she clim up by the hub of the wheel & set beside him & he spoke to the team She had been Betsy Rowanberry two days who was bornd Betsy Coulter 21 May 1824 Will turnd the mules & they stepd into the road passd under the oak & soon was out of sight down the hill The last I seen was her hand still raisd still waving after wagon & all was out of sight Oh it was the last I seen of her that little hand Afterwards I would say to myself I could have gone with them as far as the foot of the hill & seen her that much longer I could have gone on as far as the river mouth & footed it back by dark But however far I finaly would have come to wher I would have to stand and see them go on that hand a waving God bless her I never knowd what become of her I will never see her in this world again

Having typed it out, I wonder if it seems a bit too much for the wholly expected and not-nearly-so-permanent departure of students from a university. But it resonates somehow. It reminds me of E. A. Robinson's poem "The Sheaves," which always dominates my thinking during times of seasonal change.

Embrace the Funk

Thursday, after a very busy day of committee work, I received an email from a colleague noting that I looked tired and thanking me for a list of committees and concerns to which I have been contributing. Then, today, I attended the South Dakota Festival of Books, and--as always happens when I attend such events--I came away with this huge sense of...well, I've described it elsewhere as a "funk."

My colleague's email inadvertently highlighted a list of invovlements and activities that are important, but not necessarily a part of my job, and certainly not a part of the larger vision I would like to be pursuing for my career and my life. I have fallen back into the very conditions I promised myself I would be escaping. Here's a passage from my tenure portfolio, submitted and approved last year:

As I began my career at USF, I envisioned myself initiating and maintaining a writing center while most of my more research-oriented activities centered on my life as a writer. Instead, five years later, I find my program of professional development shaped largely by the wonderful complexities of writing center work and the joy of teaching a variety of coursework within the English department. My writing life, on the contrary, has taken a back seat. The pendulum has swung too far, and my goal looking forward is to renew the pursuit of the balance.

Three weeks into a new semester, it's become increasingly clear that I've yet to "renew the pursuit" of anything, much less balance. Indeed, I appear to have strayed further from the goal, taking on involvements that aren't obligations, that aren't likely to be productive, and that aren't--or shouldn't be, really--my job.

Thus, over the course of the next week or so, I'm going to embrace the funk, as I attempt to evaluate my involvements and figure out what to winnow. If you're on a funk-free kick, then you'll probably want to avoid this blog for a week or so.

A Remarkable Thing

Well, today is a better day, as the pre-semester funk has abated for now. One reason for this was the chance to talk with members of the freshmen class who chose to participate in USF's freshmen reading program. Last-minute preparations for our discussion of Marilynne Robinson's Gilead reacquainted me with the following quotation from the novel:

A good sermon is one side of a passionate conversation. It has to be heard in that way. There are three parties to it, of course, but so are there even in the most private thought--the self that yields the thought, the self that acknowledges and in some way responds to the thought, and the Lord. That is a remarkable thing to consider. (45)

That is a remarkable thing, and one so easily forgotten in the rush of syllabus construction, and photocopying, and scheduling, and anticipating the mountains of papers coming my way over the next few months.

I know the parallel between preaching and teaching is potentially problematic for many. (And for me, depending upon how one defines/characterizes those two endeavors.) But, as I conceive the two, the parallel seems to resonate. Almost eighteen months ago I found myself considering a similar notion.

Peanut Butter for a New Semester

Probably the greatest thing about living the academic life (well, a good thing, anyway) is the opportunity for a new start every semester. New books. New students. Since my students in ENG 222 will be required to maintain a blog as a reading journal, I get the chance to revitalize my own blogging practice.

We're also trying a new experiment. We're using a wiki for the first time this semester. Students will post information connected with their lit. circles to the wiki, creating sort of a mini-reference book for the semester, etc. I'm anxious to see how it unfolds.

I chose to use PBWiki. They provide a free account. (Premium accounts are also available.) And the interface seems to be quite straightforward, which I'll need since both me and my students are covering new ground.

Let the games begin.

Llamas, Tigers, and Ducks

My wife is out of town for a week, so the kids and I went to the zoo this morning. It was probably the single most impressive visit I've ever made to any zoo. The tigers (a mother and two "teen-age"? cubs) were frisky. Wrestling. Pouncing on one another. Chasing. Even, at times, standing up on their hind legs swatting at one another like sparring partners. In the truest sense of the word, it was quite awesome.

Of course, when we got home (after a trip through McDonald's), I asked my kids about their favorite things at the zoo. My son (3) informed me he didn't have one. My daughter (5) rattled off the following list:

• the mama duck with chicks that ran across the rhino's pen.
  
• feeding the ducks and swans.
  
• the duck that half bit her finger while she was feeding it.
  

No tigers. No bears. Not even the llama-like creatures getting it on while all the parents snickered nervously and the children asked "Why is he making that noise?"

My daughter, the more conversant of the two kids, then asked me about my favorite thing, at which time I reminded them about the tigers. Her reply was, "Oh, yeah."

The conversation got me thinking about the extent to which learning is often serendipitous. My kids may never see tigers playing so actively at any other point in their lives, and chances are they won't remember this moving sight. Had the event occurred five years from now, the impact may have been different. Similarly, I've heard folks say of any number of novels, "You have to be at a certain point in your life to really enjoy it." While I suspect that line is often used as some combination of excuse and encouragement, I also suspect that there can be some truth in it.

The point I guess, is this: The feeling I had today with my children was not entirely unlike the feeling I sometimes get with my first-year composition courses. Some of the students are "ready." The events in their lives have brought them to a place where they are receptive to and appreciative of the discoveries and the challenges and the rewards of writing. Others--even while academically and intellectually prepared--see the course as a hoop to jump through. (Perhaps because we've framed it that way?) Certainly, I was in these same shoes as an undergraduate. In such instances, I find myself wishing for something along the lines of a "ghost of Christmas future," some way to provide a bit of perspective that hasn't yet been generated in the course of one's life to date.

gad

Disheveled in the Pulpit

Okay, I've taken far too long to post to this blog, even if I'm talking to an audience of one. Early in this semester, Kirby--in his Monday-night class on calling--asked us to describe last semester in a word, and our hopes for this semester in a word. My two words were "fog" and "joy," respectively. Well, this semester has become a fog as well, and perhaps in more pronounced ways.

My epigraph for this blog--taken from Annie Dillard--emphasizes the connection between verbalization and seeing. Well, I haven't had/made the time for verbalizing (as indicated by the gap between posts), and as a result, I'm not seeing very clearly right now. I'm very much in the fog.

Today was one of those days when I didn't even have the time to get naked (see the post titled "Naked in the Pulpit," below). Nor was I hiding behind an impressive if metaphorical set of threads designed to perpetuate in others some perception of control, authority, or even competence. I was disheveled today.

Part of the mess was the relative apathy that hits both students and faculty alike at this time of year. Part of it was a completely unproductive weekend. Also, by attempting to not let work overwhelm me, I've managed to let work overwhelm me. Tons of papers to grade. Lots of other administrative type stuff to be done as well. Plus the onslaught of more personal obligations and events that surface toward the end of the school year. To misquote Jerry Reed, in that masterpiece of American cinema--Smoky & the Bandit--"I've got a long ways to go, and a short time to get there."

I don't mind being "naked in the classroom." Indeed, that's my goal, really. Today, however, was one of those days where I simply couldn't get out of my sweats.

Now that I've run a perfectly apt metaphor into the ground, I'll try to get some grading done.

Naked In the Pulpit

Let me throw out another link to some stuff by Tim Keel. This time, it's an article titled "Naked in the Pulpit," published in Leadership Journal. The article reflects on Tim's movement from a more planned, scripted, didactic manner of preaching toward a more personal, intimate, relational approach. As I'm not a preacher, I find the article interesting mostly for the potential parallels to be drawn between Tim's reflection on preaching and my own manner as a teacher.

For example, consider the following:

If the only kind of speech we use is speech that deals with comprehension, then we will only talk about that which we understand. As a preacher, I am invited to describe a reality that I am just beginning to get the hint of. That means being willing not to know, to stumble over language so I might tell a story. I'm not so interested in merely providing comprehension; I'm interested in describing reality, even if that leaves room for confusion.

In many ways, this same interest is what most motivates me as a teacher. It is this interest that pulled me back to graduate school to begin with. On the good days, this goal comes close to being realized--at least for me. (You'd have to ask my students whether or not I ever really come close from their perspective.) On the not-so-good days, this goal seems miles away. I find myself wondering about my ability to pursue such a goal, to overcome the various forces--cultural and personal--that can inhibit the pursuit (e.g., the assessment culture, NCLB, etc.).

Dose of Conviction

A few months ago, I discovered a blog written by Tim Keel. Tim and I worked at the same summer camp for several years while we were in college, and he's since become pastor of a church in Kansas City. It's been a blast to drop in on his blog and eavesdrop on his life a bit. He's become a pretty sharp guy :), and I've become a regular reader. A while back, he shared this quotation from Dostoevsky, which has lingered with me for a couple of weeks, as it forces me to consider contemporary views of the intellectual life--especially my own.

These men do not understand that the sacrifice of life is, perhaps, the easiest of all sacrifices in many cases, while to sacrifice, for example, five or six years of their ebulliently youthful life to hard, difficult studies, to learning, in order to increase tenfold their strength to serve the very truth and the very deed that they loved and set out to accomplish - such sacrifice is quite often almost beyond the strength of many of them.

~ Narrator, Dostoevksy’s The Brothers Karamozov

Acedia

The following post was written a while back in the context of a group blog that never took off. I thought I would go ahead and repost it here, since the issue continues to linger.

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A recent thread on the ChristLit discussion list lead me to the following article: "Fighting the Noonday Devil," by R. R. Reno. Given the goals of USF and LAR, I found the article to be both convicting and fascinating. It focuses on the danger of acedia--"a lassitude and despair that overwhelms spiritual striving"--and explores the manner in which the modern academy, with its emphasis on critical distance, might be inflicting acedia upon students. Reno cites Dante's Purgatorio several times, and has prompted me to take a closer look. I ended up buying Merwin's translation not long ago.

In any event, the article is an intriguing read, and one that generates some questions in terms of LAR goals (particularly the search-for-truth aspect of the Christian liberal arts) and how LAR functions in the larger scheme of USF. Some quotations:

There are no intellectual solutions to spiritual problems. Like each of the seven deadly sins, acedia must be fought with spiritual discipline. Such discipline is profoundly alien to our culture, not because we have alternatives, but because we entertain the fantasy of life without spiritual demands. This fantasy is the most important legacy of modernity. For the great innovation of modern culture was the promise of progress without spiritual discipline.

* * *

We should rush toward our Lord, for we can never become too intimate, and we should wait patiently with Him, for He always has something more to give. To do so, we must place the pedagogy of critical distance and the dictates of conscience within a larger vision of journey toward the truth, a journey in which the warm and enduring embrace of love is to be cherished rather than mocked or feared.

How--at USF, in LAR, or in the academy generally--do we place our instruction of critical distance into this larger context? Or, do we handle the critical distance stuff and let other parts of campus handle the larger vision?

gad