Dear Friends, Family, Neighbors, and Those of You I Don’t Yet Know —
Hello, Odd Company readers, and welcome. It’s the day after Father’s Day. As it happens, I went home to Reno last week to see my dad and my stepmom. Dad is 92 years old, has been dealing with Parkinson’s Disease for the past ten or twelve years, and is getting toward the end of things. In his own words, he has his train ticket home. I grew up in Reno, so there are many things I enjoy about being there, especially in the summer. I love the dry heat and the ever-present wind, which, this time of year, blows all day — till evening, that is, when it stops. At my folks’ house, which is outside the city limits on a hill overlooking a valley with a creek, as evening arrives the wind’s whoosh and whistling is replaced by the sounds of crickets, frogs, coyotes, the neighing of horses, and the smell of willows, wetness, and sagebrush. The horses aren’t wild exactly. They were once tame — owned by people who turned them loose because they couldn’t afford to keep them. So “feral” is a better word than wild, I suppose. They look quite different from mustangs, the real wild horses, which are chunkier and have sturdier legs.
The good news is that we made this journey by air, to see how John’s new lung would do in the low air pressure of a plane’s cabin. And he came through with flying colors. Er…sorry for the pun. Even so, it is sad to see one’s father fading away, and to know that the near future holds something we wish could be otherwise.
People sometimes ask me why I like gardening so much. I mean, if you’ve done much gardening yourself, you know there’s hard physical work involved, and dirt and goosh. Well, I might as well say what I mean. Manure, or fish emulsion, or the castings from one’s worm farm. Yeah, goosh, all of it distinctly odorous. There are weeds that need to be pulled, seedlings that need to be thinned, and pests that have to be kept to a reasonable number. And these things involve killing. I don’t think of myself as a murderer, but of course, in the strictest terms, I am. Every animal is. We survive at the expense of other living things. It’s the nature of life on Earth.
In spite of all this, for me the garden is the most healing place I know. When I’m gardening, the rest of the world and its troubles — and my own troubles, for that matter — fall away. I’m only thinking of the small ecosystem that is in my care. If it is beautiful and fruitful, it is because I’ve succeeded in becoming part of it. That requires forgetting myself. It is a form of meditation, deep rest, and communion with something much, much greater than me — that entity made up of soil, water, sunlight, bees and butterflies, worms, decay, and burgeoning life. In return for this forgetfulness, I am enfolded and healed. Plus, John and I get to eat as much fresh produce as we can. And there’s so much that the neighbors get some, too. It’s a complete win-win.
Amid all the unrest among Stanford’s students this year, I was very pleased to see an article in the student newspaper, the Stanford Daily, about the joys of working on the Stanford Educational Farm, a six-acre vegetable, fruit, and herb plot on campus with over 200 varieties of plants. Students volunteer to work there, knowing they’ll be helping to feed their fellow students. It’s a place to learn about balance, make new friends if they want, or simply to fall under the spell of the work and the small songs of a garden. Heaven knows, the brains of these very bright young people need a rest sometimes. The garden offers respite from the many pressures they feel — to always perform at the top of their game, to please their parents, to save the world. I am sometimes very glad to be old and easier on myself.
I have been reading and thinking about forgiveness and the nature of evil over the past few weeks. I’m continuing to read Brody and Luke Mullins’ 600-page tome, The Wolves of K Street: How Big Money Took Over Big Government. Which is, frankly, depressing. On some level, I’ve always known that concentrated amounts of money and power transform most people who are exposed to them for very long. Very few of us seem immune to this siren call. We live in a time of concentrated wealth and the power it begets at society’s expense. Ever wonder why we can’t seem to solve our common problems? Partly, it’s because Google has forgotten their motto: Don’t Be Evil. There are many other reasons, too. Read this book if you want all the gory details.
There was an excellent essay by the non-fiction writer Linda Kinstler on the concept of “political oblivion” in The New York Times over the weekend.1 Kinstler, who is of Latvian descent (persecuted Jews on her mother’s side, Nazi collaborator on her father’s side), recently published a book on the holocaust. Specifically, she is studying the ways in which societies that have been riven by violence have dealt with the aftermath and moved on. She begins with the example of ancient Athens. She says, “The oldest act of oblivion is usually dated to 403 B.C., when the Athenians, having survived the bloody reign of the Thirty Tyrants, swore to never remember the wrongs of a war within the family, a civil war that had divided Athens.” She goes on to give further examples from the American Revolution and our Civil War, as well as examples from World War II. Oblivion. What Kinstler really seems to be talking about is accountability for the primary instigators, followed by pardon and forgiveness for those who were led astray.
I’m thinking of the Rawandan genocide, maybe because we ate dinner Saturday night with friends we came to know on a trip to Kenya and Rawanda some years ago. They recently repeated that trip, and so we talked about the horror of the genocide, and the strangeness of the way Rawandans have dealt with it — through a deliberate act of political oblivion, as it turns out. Prison for the ring-leaders, and mercy for everyone else. When we asked our native guide whether he was Tutsi or Hutu, he said, “We no longer speak of ourselves that way. I am Rawandan.” It isn’t forgetting exactly. In fact, as Kinstler points out, it is an act of continuous remembering. But it is also forgiveness and setting aside the past in favor of the future; it is about healing and moving on. The situation in South Africa is similar. And dare I say it, so are the situations in Ukraine, and in Gaza and Israel, which will require acts of political oblivion if there is ever to be peace in those places again.
“Evil” is a word we often hear thrown around in such situations. When someone’s actions seem horrendous beyond comprehension, and we find ourseIves sitting, head in hands, asking why anyone would do such a thing, “Because they are evil,” is too often the ready answer. I have seen very few definitions of evil that seem useful or worthwhile. The best one I’ve come across is a philosophical argument called “Absence of Good.” It’s an ancient idea, possibly dating back to Plato. It goes something like this. Evil is not a thing in itself. It’s just the absence of good. But how should we define “good”? It seems reasonable to say that evil is just the absence of love and compassion. One lesson we can take from all of this is to be wary of any would-be leader who speaks only of hatred and retribution. It’s easy to see how that ends — in the need for oblivion.
For tonight’s music, I’ve chosen a lovely piece by the Ukrainian American musician, Peter Ostroushko. You might know his name already if you are a fan of Garrison Keillor and The Prairie Home Companion radio show. Ostroushko was a featured musician there for many years. I’m sorry to say he died recently, from complications after a stroke. He was surely one of the most gifted mandolin artists in the world. I hope you’ll enjoy “Heart of the Heartland.” I love listening to it. It never grows old.
In closing, given the somewhat dark tone of tonight’s issue, I thought a little levity might be in order. Here’s a gardening poem I wrote some years ago, in response to a news article implying that nature is dead and blaming me for it. What can I say? I’m part of Nature, as are you. Sure, we should be conscious about the way we treat the world. But sheesh. Till next time, Don’t Be Evil.
UNNATURAL
Today's headlines:
Nature Is Dead
Extinction of Species Rampant
Humanity to Blame.
Over tea of mango, orange,
the fruit of autumn roses
and hawthorn trees
I wiggle into this tight-fitting image,
myself as Genocidal Despot of Oak Court,
armed with alien seeds,
intent on the mass murder of snails,
mildew, privets, and those invasive woody things
that strangle fuchsias.
Seven grains fly fiery from my tongue,
cashews, almonds, walnuts,
hens' eggs, the milk of lowing cattle.
Moments from now I will commit atrocities
unknown in true nature,
pull tender grasses out by roots,
cut back ivy to make room for dreadful flowers,
blood-red salvia, celosia wicked as cats,
a clump of deadly daisies.
I am a horror greater by far
than an asteroid the size of Texas,
violent volcanoes, exploding stars.
Terrible with trowels and compost,
dreams of the garden in July,
my knees killing me,
I am bad, bad, bad
in the lightless, unnatural heart of me.
"January 6, America’s Rupture and the Strange, Forgotten Power of Oblivion,” by Linda Kinstler, The New York Times, June 16, 2024.