The Sauntering Pilgrim

Today Anne Lamott reminded me of an old, probably ancient, story that’s relevant again, one I’ve heard several times before and you probably have, too. In the story, a farmer wakes to find that a herd of wild horses has broken down the fences surrounding his acreage. Much repair work lies ahead for the farmer and his grown son, and the neighbors rush to sympathize. The farmer shrugs, “Good news, bad news? Who knows.” His son captures a couple of the horses, and slowly begins to tame them, that they might be a blessing to the farm. The neighbors cheer this development, and the farmer shrugs. “Good news, bad news? Who knows.” The son is thrown by one of the horses and breaks his leg, and the neighbors rush to sympathize. Who will do all the heavy lifting now? The farmer shrugs. The army arrives conscripting young men for battle, but the farmer’s injured son can be of no use to them, so they leave him at home. The farmer shrugs. The story goes on and on.

These days continue to bring a parade of good and bad news. The fortress wall of our generation’s Ozymandias (aka, Trump, the warlock of Washington – warlock, from an old English word meaning “breaker of oaths” or “deceiver” and that around 1,000 years ago came to apply to the devil) seems impregnable, and cruelty reigns. Then chinks start appearing in the wall as more people become dissatisfied with his regime and its values. The chinks develop into encouraging election results. But then, the Democrats’ apparently solid resistance breaks down, and defectors capitulate to the Republican power holders. Bad news, good news, bad news: who knows? It’s enough to give me whiplash.

I call to mind some lines from Ecclesiastes, about how one generation gives way to the next and nothing changes. What was will be again, what happened will happen again. Year after year it’s the same. Or from the Heart Sutra, “There is no ignorance, and no end to ignorance. There is no old age and death, and no end to old age and death. There is no suffering, no cause of suffering, no end to suffering, no path to follow. There is no attainment of wisdom, and no wisdom to attain.” Ozzie and his co-conspirators have enjoyed their ascendancy, as they will surely one day fall into their descendancy, leaving nothing but the remnants of a colossal wreck.

So what is Lamott trying to remember during these whiplash days? “All seems lost,” she writes, “and then, oh wait, great election results, and then, oh wait . . . .” Then she remembers it, something from Wendell Berry. “Be joyful,” he wrote, pulling it out from someplace deep in his heart, “though you have considered all the facts.” It’s a stubborn, invincible joy. As for me, I’m remembering lines from poet Francis Quarles (1592-1644). “My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on; / Judge not the play before the play is done: / Her plot has many changes; every day / Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.” Something larger than I can conceive is afoot in all this good news bad news cycle. I’m trying to be a patient looker-on and refrain from judging the play before the play is done. In trying, I can feel the faintest stirrings of joy.