The Gift of Good Land

This week's synchroblog topic is 'A book that changed my life,' and seeing as I chose the topic, I'm making a brief foray out of hibernation to respond.

There are some books, like the Bible, or Thomas Merton's New Seeds of Contemplation, or Bonhoeffer's Discipleship, that change one's life in ways and to degrees that defy simple explanations. But the phenomena of elusive explication is not limited to 'profound' sorts of books; books of any shape or sort or size may change us in ways we scarcely realize, . But whatever the case, the point remains that books change us, and pondering this week's topic makes me wonder whether one couldn't dedicate an entire blog to the matter.

But in a situation such as this, where one is wont to choose, I'll settle with a collection of essays by Wendell Berry entitled The Gift of Good Land. The book is peopled with non-fictional stories of farmers from Peru, Kentucky, and Berry's own farm. Its essays hold together around themes of land use, community, economics, and craft. For those wanting to learn more about the woes of factory farming and agribusiness, Berry's clear analysis of our agricultural system and subsequent offer of local alternatives make this collection essential reading.

As suggested above, I likely don't realize the extent of this book's influence in my life, but I'll try to name what I know. First, Berry's writing style challenged me (and challenges me still) to be a more self-conscious writer. Second, this book brought me to a new level of awareness about how I think about work. For example, I'm trying more and more to take pleasure in domestic handwork, rather than viewing it as drudgery. And thirdly, The Gift of Good Land taught me the value of good tools, good land, and the importance of participating in small, local economies. This last point represents a more general sort of influence I've encountered over the past few years, but Berry distills (what I'll call) 'agrarian wisdom' in such a way that I feel it necessary to give him credit.

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This post is part of a synchroblog I participate in the with Creative Collective. Follow this link to read other members' blog posts on the same topic: A book that changed my life.

Kagemusha

Last night my buddy Tom and I watched Akira Kurosawa's film Kagemusha (1980). I've heard it said that it's not Kurosawa's best, and I agree, this is true. It doesn't have the engaging narrative and lively characters that mark his earlier films. But I want to reflect briefly on a few of Kagemusha's merits, because there are a few cinematic gems buried in there.

The film is set in 16th century Japan, before the nation was unified. From start to finish, the turmoil and bloodshed wax in intensity. In my first watch-through, it felt like the film's structure was built on a slow swell toward chaos. For example, the film gradually shifts its focus from the narratives of individual characters to the broader conflicts at large – from warlords, doubles, and fiefs, to battles and burning castles. I see this as Kurosawa's interpretation of the unification conflict itself, as the warlords' own identities and meanings were unmoored and swallowed up in forces beyond their control. It's a movement from control and coherence into chaos.

Aside from that reflection, there were two parts I found especially satisfying. The first was the opening scene, where Warlord Shingen and his brother, Nobukado, convince the thief Kagemusha to act as a double for the Warlord. Kurosawa shot the scene in one long take, from one camera angle. The room is bare, and the characters hardly move from their seats. Its almost excruciatingly slow, lending a certain gravity to every gesture and movement. The scene feels like it was shot for the stage, which I think is the point. Each of the men is set up as an actor playing on the stage of Japan's history, in events well beyond their control.

The second scene I'll note happened about a quarter of the way into the film. It's when the sniper who shoots Shingen explains to his superiors how he executed the shot in the dark. I find it a brilliant moment in the film, again emphasizing the impact that the genius and wit of one character can have on events and circumstances that are far larger than himself.

This seems like enough reflection for now. I'll close by saying that Kagemusha is worth watching as a snapshot in Kurosawa's career, but I recommend Seven Samurai and Hidden Fortress as superior films.

Abandon

"There's an old quote, Ophelia," the young girl's father, Mr. Chester, said musingly. "It's one of my favorites, and I believe it speaks directly to our little disagreement. It goes like this: 'Abandon hope, ye who enter here.' It means," he went on, stroking his mustache, "that once you reach a certain point, you enter a certain stage of life, the journey's not worth the trouble anymore. See what I mean?"

"No Father," Ophelia grumped, hastily stifling a yawn. "You're not helping. I've already told you: I don't want to be eight years old anymore. I want to be grown up – I'm ready!"

Mr. Chester shook his head. "Ophelia, being grown up isn't so glamorous and exciting as you might think. Just look at me." Ophelia gave him a good look and frowned. "Exactly," Mr. Chester nodded, "you see, once you're grown up, you start to gain weight in unsightly places; you start to grow (and in my case, lose) hair at rates hitherto unfathomed; you even start to lose your memory. No, Ophelia, once you're grown up, there's just nothing else to look forward to; once you're my age, you might as well give up on the idea that the good things in life will still come your way."

"But Father," Ophelia argued, "you get to smoke cigarettes and ride in carriages by yourself and stay up late and eat as many chocolates as you want and–"

Mr. Chester held up his hand to shush her. "Ophelia," he sighed, "you're confused my darling. Those things seem nice, but they aren't the good things in life. What's good is being young, having energy, riding your bicycle, reading your stories, pulling up carrots, and all such as that. What's good is being free from anxiety, being able to run about in this green world without it dragging you down, understand? Ophelia, I've lost that. I've grown old. I have chocolates, but I have worries. I ride in carriages, but I never enjoy them because I'm riding for business. It's not the same."

"But Father," Ophelia responded, wide-eyed, "if I grow up, I'll still ride my bicycle and play in the dirt and do all of my favorite things. I'll just be, well, grown up."

Mr. Chester smiled. "Some people can do that Ophelia. Some people can be old and still be young. You're old Father here wasn't so lucky."

"Oh, that's sad Papa!" Ophelia leapt into her Father's lap and rested her head on his shoulder. "I think there's still a young Papa in you somewhere." She snuggled deep into his shoulder.

"Ophelia, that is very nice of you to say. You know, in some ways, being grown up is just as simple as living each day, knowing that tomorrow we'll be older and wiser. In that sense, time just seems to... Ophelia?" The young girl was breathing deeply, fast asleep. The hour was, of course, long past her bedtime. "I should have known – old enough to weasel your Father into staying up, but not old enough to take the consequences. Off you go now."

Once he'd tucked Ophelia into bed, he went back to the parlor. He pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and reached for a chocolate he'd left on the piano. For a moment, he listened to the crickets chirping outside the twilit window. "Perhaps there is a young Papa in me somewhere," he smiled thoughtfully. "Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the fruits of age, however," he chortled, popping the chocolate into his mouth.

The End.

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This post is part of a synchroblog, where myself and some other good folk post simultaneously, every two weeks, on the same topic. This week's topic was "Giving up for the long haul." Above is my interpretation. The other bloggers' takes can be found here:

Synchrobloggers

Roots

"Father!" Ophelia yelped from where she sat, "what's this one?" In her hands, which on this particular morning were covered with dirt – as were her knees, feet, and belly – she held a deep red, earth-encrusted bulb. The bulb was like a tiny ball, white near the top where tall fronds of green exploded from its cap, and white again where a thin vein hung from its base. But the red, the pure deep red of its middle, was so beautiful Ophelia could hardly stand it – like a ruby, a treasure excavated from some forgotten pharaoh, and Ophelia had found it first. The archaeological community would, undoubtedly, be in awe.

"What's that?" her Father grunted from a few yards away. Mr. Chester was on his knees in the manor gardens as well, but Ophelia's enthusiasm was lost on him. Sweat bristled on his thick mustache, and his shirt was plastered to his back like the wrappings of a mummy. Looking up from the clump of weeds that, despite his best efforts, was still firmly planted in their bed of cabbages, Mr. Chester chuckled to himself at Ophelia's discovery.

"Why, my dear, that's just a radish. You can try it if you like, but you'd better brush it off first. Now haven't you pulled up enough of Ms. Braeburn's vegetables this morning?" Ms. Braeburn was the widow of the Chester family's former groundskeeper, Mick, and she had stayed on to carry on her husband's work. She was a gifted gardener, but a bit reclusive. Mr. Chester, out of pity for the widow, and out of sheer hatred for disorder, helped pull weeds from the vegetables from time to time. This day, however, was the first time Ophelia had taken a real interest in the neatly rowed garden beds. A book on loan to the Chesters from the British Archaelogical Society may have aided her conversion.

And yes, Mr. Chester was right. Ophelia had pulled up a fair few of Ms. Braeburn's vegetables that morning. Strewn about the girl were the following: some new potatoes, yellow and lumpy like clumps of gold sifted in a creek; a few varieties of carrots, precious daggers made from living orange stone, their hilts as green as jade and worth far more; and one fat turnip, its white and purple exterior signaling it was clearly from a nest of dinosaur eggs, buried in the garden from time out of memory. And now, finally, the radishes, the glorious radishes, the most valuable discovery of the day. Wiping off the dirt on her already-filthy blouse, Ophelia found that their coloring was even more brilliant than she had first hoped. She flopped on her back and stared at the blessed thing from every possible angle.

"I suppose it's good you know your roots," Mr. Chester mumbled, turning back to his weeding. He got to his knees, wrapped his hands firmly around the stubborn clump in front of him, and pulled with all his might. His face turned red. He pulled harder. His face turned deeper red, then deeper. Ophelia stopped to watch her father work. Finally, his face was ruby like the radish in her hand.

"Oh father," Ophelia cried, "you might explode!"

"Woah!" he yelled, the weeds finally giving way. The force of his pull threw him backward, laying him out flat. "Good gracious," he heaved, "these weeds will be the end of me."

"Here, have a radish father, it will make you feel better!" She handed him the clean radish, then picked another for herself.

"Don't mind if I do, thank you my dear." Holding the red radish next to his red face, he looked ridiculous.

Crunch. Ophelia bit into her radish. Her eyes took a queer turn. "Oh father," she spit the bite out, "it's so bitter!"

"Yes," he replied, crunching on his radish thoughtfully, "they usually are."

"I suppose most buried treasures aren't meant to taste good," Ophelia thought to herself. "But they are so, so nice to look at." She put the remains of the radish in her blouse pocket and inspected the rest of the vegetables and concluded that yes, they were important discoveries indeed.

The End.

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This post is part of a synchroblog (a group of people posting every two weeks on the same topic). This week's topic was "know your roots." To read the other posts, which are quite good, follow this link:

http://synchrobloggers.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/know-your-roots/

Sunshine

In the parlor of her family’s Victorian home, Ophelia was kneeling in a wing-backed armchair, her elbows folded and resting on its back. Looking out the large parlor windows, she squinted just enough so that she could look at the noonday sun without hurting her eyes. Every so often, she would fling her lids wide and gaze upon the great orange ball in all its burning splendor. Able to bear it for only seconds, she would quickly look away, blinking furiously. To her delight thereafter, whether she closed her eyes or simply stared at the floor, she could still see the image of the round sun as clearly as if its shape were burnt into her pupils. When the sun’s likeness had faded, she would start at the beginning, squinting to give her eyes a rest, then capturing the sun all over again.

“Father,” she said, sitting up quite suddenly after nearly half an hour of her game. The mustached and be-monocled  Mr. Chester was dozing in another armchair nearby. “Father, have you ever looked up at the sun?” She could scarcely imagine that her father had ever done so, or that he had ever had a childhood for that matter, stuffy and boorish as he was.

“Eh?” he grunted, cracking an eye and giving her a sideways glance. “The sun, what’s that?”

“Have you ever looked up at the sun?” she persisted.

“Oh,” he yawned, “that’s a silly question, my girl. Of course I have.”

“You have?” she said, a note of surprise in her voice.

Both his eyes were open now. Mr. Chester stretched, then scooted his armchair around to face his daughter. “Ophelia,” he began, “I once looked at the sun through a telescope! It nearly blinded my left eye!”

“Oh father!” she said in mock horror. “But you got better, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, my dear,” he chuckled. “Of course. But you have to be careful, you know. Too much staring at the sun, and who knows, you might not be so lucky as me.”

“Hmm,” said Ophelia thoughtfully, looking outside again and watching the sun glitter on a small pond in the gardens. “You know, Father, I think that if the sun came any closer to the earth, we might all be blinded! It’s just lucky that the sun keeps far enough away to give us light, but not too much.”

“Ho ho,” her father chuckled. “Ophelia, I don’t think the sun will be moving any time soon. It’s quite happy where it is, I do believe.”

“But father,” Ophelia turned to him, annoyed. “The sun moves every day. It goes all the away around the earth, round and round. I read about it in a book.”

“Well, I hate to argue, but I think you’ve been reading the wrong books Ophelia. The sun doesn’t move – the earth does. We’re on an orbit, you see, and – oh, but I suppose you wouldn’t understand all that.”

“No, father!” Ophelia jumped up in her chair. “You're wrong! If the earth were moving, we would feel it. We’d be stumbling and nothing would sit on the shelves properly. Stop playing,” she fumed, jumping down from the chair. She ran over to the couch across the room and flung herself upon it.

“Be reasonable, Ophelia,” her father began in an exasperated tone.

“No, you be reasonable Father!” she called back. “I know what I know, and I see what I see. The sun runs around the earth like a big chariot, and it’s beautiful, and I would watch it run all day long if my eyes could stand it! Hmph!” With a final sigh, she snuggled her face into a pillow and lay still.

“Well, Ophelia,” her father said carefully, “I suppose you can decide for yourself which way is the right way. But maybe you’ll change your mind some day – you should be open to that, you know.” He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. Clenching one between his lips, he struck a match and tried to light it – the small flame from the match crept closer and closer to his fingertips. As he finally puffed the cigarette to life, the match came to its end. “Ouch!” he said, and dropped the spent match onto his lap. “Blast it all,” he muttered, sticking his burnt finger in his mouth.

“Serves you right,” Ophelia whispered into her pillow. “If the sun were any closer, it’d do the same thing.”


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This post is part of a synchroblog, where people post at the same time every two weeks on the same topic. This week's topic is: 'The Earth around the Sun or the Sun around the Earth: Centers of Gravity.' To read the other posts (which are quite good), follow this link:


Synchrobloggers