Working the Earth of the Heart
This morning I untangled myself from the sweaty covers, emerged from bed, and quickly brewed my coffee. I wanted to get outdoors before the heat, so I decided to carry it with me on a walk––take-out coffee, country-style. As soon as I stepped outside, I was rewarded with the magic and mystery of the world just awakening, still sleepy-eyed, a little blue with leftover night, a quiet kind of intimacy. I felt entrusted with secrets, and grateful to be so honored. Black cows grazed in a line-up that mirrored the curve of the land, a broken plate of pale white moon loitered in the sky, and an unexpected strip of bright sunlight turned a ridge top sudden gold.
My friend Diane tells me that it was 113 degrees in Los Olivos yesterday, and the afternoon was punctuated by an earthquake, and the Bingo card of the Apocalypse is filling up fast in all directions. Lately I keep hearing and thinking about that word "apocalypse" and it prompted me to revisit the wonderful writing of Kathleen Norris. Of the word "apocalypse" she writes:
The word "apocalypse" comes from the Greek for "uncovering" or "revealing," which makes it a word about possibilities. And while uncovering something we'd just as soon keep hidden is a frightening prospect, the point of apocalypse is not to frighten us into submission. Although it is often criticized as "pie-in-the-sky" fantasizing, I believe its purpose is to teach us to think about "next-year-country" in a way that sanctifies our lives here and now. "Next-year-country" is a treasured idiom of the western Dakotas, an accurate description of the landscape that farmers and ranchers dwell in - next year rains will come at the right time; next year I won't get hailed out; next year winter won't set in before I have my hay hauled in for winter feeding. I don't know a single person on the land who uses the idea of "next year" as an excuse not to keep on reading the earth, not to look for the signs that mean you've got to get out and do the field work when the time is right. Maybe we're meant to use apocalyptic literature in the same way: not as an allowance to indulge in an otherworldly fixation but as an injunction to pay closer attention to the world around us. When I am disturbed by the images of apocalypse, I find it helpful to remember the words of a fourth-century monk about the task of reading scripture as "working the earth of the heart," for it is only in a disturbed, ploughed up ground that the seeds we plant for grain can grow.
I love that so much. I spend a lot of time in "next-year-country" but I honestly believe that the plague and other seemingly apocalyptic events now unfolding are teaching me not to devalue the current moment even as I ponder what is yet to come. Everything seems to be shining with new significance lately, including the most mundane objects and routine activities, which suddenly seem precious and extraordinary. My consciousness is shifting, and I'm trying to understand why this is happening. I think we are indeed seeing the ground of our existence disturbed and ploughed up, and if we are alive and sentient, our hearts must be opening too. The vessel that contains my soul is thinning and corroding, and existence is rushing in, unfiltered. And it's not exactly bad, just difficult to know how to ride it.
My mother-in-law next door has been listening to a clarinet quintet by Mozart, and I can hear it in my head now. It’s getting hot…94 degrees, even in the house, and hotter outside. A helicopter is circling noisily, for which I have no explanation, but it feels ominous. Monte went for a swim, which sounds so refreshing, I can almost imagine myself wading in, despite my inability to swim and uneasy relationship with water. Instead, I am sitting at my desk finishing a melting pint of ice cream, a liquid I can handle. It’s butter pecan and very rich, and I think it is exactly the right indulgence.
New seeds are being planted, and the ground will need tending, but next-year-country looks inviting. Watch your step…the earth is shifting…but don’t lose sight of the views along the way.