Day: May 16, 2016

The moral philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote often about the moral person, the quality of being a person as opposed to simply being human. The greatest evildoers, she writes, are those who don’t remember because they have never given thought to the matter, and, without remembrance, nothing can hold them back from evil and cruelty.

For human beings, morality is not about gifts or even intelligence, it is about thoughtfulness.

The moral people who I know understand the pain of remembrance, they feel pain and evil deeply, and through their pain and hurt, commit themselves to never inflict suffering on others, on giving hope to the poor and broken. The cruel and the evil among us have no memory because they have never thought.

Like many of you reading this, the pain of remembrance is always present, thus the drive  to be a moral person. We think about our lives because we feel. No one outside of us can really tell us what it means to be a moral person,  it is the most personal and interior of processes. When we grant pardon, says Arendt, it is the person and not the crime that is forgiven; in rootless evil there is no person left whom one could ever forgive.

They are beyond reach and reason, they can’t remember.

I seek to be a moral person, and I think of this now because it is timely,  there is much talk of the political parties and their “platforms,” their statements of ideals and purpose. These platforms are adopted at political conventions, and while they are often ignored, they are perhaps the most significant statements of morality in our culture. There are really no others, at least not in public.

Wendell Berry writes in his new book “Our Only World” that the platform of the corporations and their political partners is large, standardized industrial solutions to be applied everywhere, and in all circumstance.

“Our aim,” he says, must be “elegant solutions predicated on the uniqueness of every place.”

The ruling ideas – the platforms – of our present national or international economy,  are competition, consumption, globalism, corporate profitability, mechanical efficiency, technological change, upward mobility (he might have added accusation and domination) – and in all of them there is the acceptance of violence against the land, the people who work on the land and elsewhere.

Violence is practiced in many forms, from physical brutality and poverty to environmental destruction and the loss of work.

Cities, towns, farms, the land and air itself, whole industries,  jobs, communities, small businesses,  are now all disposable, necessary sacrifices to the corporate revolution. These are violent experiences, often shattering and destructive.

We are now perpetually at war with much of the world and with the earth itself, a reality against which there is shockingly little real resistance or thought. On the very edges of our society, marginalized and ignored – they never make it to the cable news channels – are the people calling for a different kind of platform. They are considered odd and strange, they have the most powerful of messages, but no one is listening.

In return, and as many psychologists predicted a half-century ago, we are turning to animals for love, comfort and grounding. This is why it is so important we keep them in our lives, rather than send them away.

To me, the very definition of a moral person in our world is a new kind of platform, talk of a different way is in the air, spreading inwards from the fringes, where it has been safely, sometimes brutally, anesthetized and confined.

I stopped for a few minutes to think of my own platform, my own idea of what it means to be a moral person. Berry says we must think again of reverence, humility, affection, familiarity, neighborliness, cooperation, thrift, appropriateness, local loyalty. These terms speak to the very best of our heritage and purpose. “They Bring Us Home.”

Revolutions, said Joseph Campbell, begin inside of us, not on the streets. I embrace this new platform in my life, I can speak of it now when asked. I do not tell others what to think or what to do, or insist they follow my ideas and beliefs. Yet it is, in its own way, as revolutionary as anything conceived by Lenin or Marx.

I do not compete with anyone in my life and work, I cherish the happiness of anyone. Life is teaching me to be humble, everyone has suffered more than I have. I am learning reverence for the earth and for the people around me. I am opening to affection, and the power of love. I am understanding the meaning of moral thrift, for the idea of appropriateness – inappropriateness feels wrong, and I am living out the very idea of local loyalty.

Community is a faith, it binds us together and heals and comforts and supports us.

I accept that no political party is likely to embrace this platform in my life, I believe it will come in time, there is a great stirring on the edges of life, the young and the women and the “others” on the edges of life are coming to heal us and save us from ourselves. My wish is that if and when they come to me, they will find a moral person, seeking thoughtfulness in my life, every single remaining day of it.

Our apple tree is old and gnarly,

it folds and unfolds and weaves and twists,

spiraling upwards, the home of cats

and birds and mice and owls and bees,

and moles and bats,

and, of course, every other year,

thousands of apples.

We could live in it,

or eat from it.

And it shades the sun for the

donkeys and horse.

About six weeks ago, we decided to go look at the ocean, the closest water to us was in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. It was snowing, a nasty ice and snow storm had set in, and I told Maria that the forecast called for more snow and ice, we should postpone or two day trip.. She called me a “snow pussy,” and of course, being male, I folded.

A three hour drive became a seven-hour drive in sleet and snow and ice, cars slid all over the road, turned over, collided and ditched. It was a white-knuckle and insane drive. The snow pussy should never have caved. “You should have stopped us, ” said my wife with a straight face. She pays no attention to storms or weather. Her rule is if we can walk to the car, we can drive anywhere.

Tomorrow, we are heading for the water again, to spend three days reading and sitting by the ocean and eating sea food and talking and walking.

These days, long vacations are out, so we have perfected the inexpensive two or three day blitz. The motel owner loves my blog and gave us a great rate of $100 a night with a view of the ocean. In my glory days, I had dinners in New York City that cost more than this vacation will.

We will not be heading to the shore in the summer, this is the last week before the rates shoot up.

The weather is, of course, uncertain, and my friend Ed Gulley wasted no time in letting me know it: From Ed by text: “Hey snow pussy! They heard you were coming so they had some snow last night in Vermont and New Hampshire. Probably better insulate the thong!”

We are setting sail, I replied, the Snow Pussy is unstoppable.

We are excited. We just went and bought cereal, bananas, apples and pears, and a bar of dark chocolate. The room has a kitchenette with a refrigerator, we can have most meals right in the room we will save the  seafood and dinner. Lots of walking, I’m bringing the monochrome.

The only catch is the weather. It was cold last night.

It snowed last night in the hills around here and in parts of Vermont and New Hampshire. The snow pussy is nervous once again, but the deposit for the room is not refundable and we need a short break. I won’t even suggest waiting a day for warmer weather.

And perhaps we will luck out and get some sun this time. Some of the arcades may be opening, I’m eager to take some photos. The snow pussy is combing the forecast, he can’t find any suggestion of snow and ice tomorrow. So the Snow Pussy rides again.

We will be back at the end of the week, and, as usual, I am not bringing a computer.  We deserve a break from one another, I have a million things I want to write. But a few days rest will be welcome, for the body, mind and soul. Much love to you. I’ll check in tomorrow before we leave, the Snow Pussy is brave and determined. But he is leaving his computer behind. The blog needs some rest also.

Peter Bailey is the new pastor of the Coila Church in Coila, N.Y., just outside my town of Cambridge. When he can, he comes to the Round House Cafe to meet with people, do his work, check is e-mail. The cafe is invaluable to him, he says, it connects him to his parishioners and to the community. Pastor Bailey is also a musician, he plays at the cafe on weeks and in special performances there.

I don’t know why, but I love to see a pastor hanging out in the cafe, working there. If the cafe had a chaplain, it would almost surely be Peter. He is part of the rich mix of community, and without the cafe,  I would never see him or get to know him. His last sermon, he said, was about fear and what it does to people.

Connie Brooks is a friend, she owns and runs Battenkill Books, the thriving and very beautiful independent bookstore right in the middle of my small town, Cambridge, N.Y. Connie and I have been working together for some years now, she has sold thousands of copies of my book – i will sign and personalize any books of mine purchased from Battenkill.

A few years ago, we mid-list writers (that means we sell well, but are generally not among the big best-sellers) were told by our publishers that independent bookstores were dead, Amazon would kill off most of them and Barnes & Noble would get the rest.

That has not happened. Barnes & Noble is struggling, selling off its huge book and craft emporiums, and Amazon is selling groceries and dog supplies. They still sell most books sold in America but  not all of them, something surprising happened. The Independent bookstores have held their own and are making comebacks all across the country.

One reason for the survive of these bookstores are people like Connie Brooks. They are new kind of bookstore owner. They understand business as well as literature, they make good decisions and keep an eye on the cash flow as well as the best-sellers.  They love books, but they also learned from Amazon: customer service is not just about having books in the store, it is about knowing customers, treating them well, making them feel safe and comfortable and giving them what they want.

Bookstores were an elitist business until just a few years ago, most Americans were uncomfortable going into one. Connie knows better. She is a shrewd business person. She manages her inventory, responds to evolving markets (her new children’s book section is an instant hit in our small town), she is open seven days a week, knows almost all of her customers by name, is active in the community.

She knows our community well. She has not lost customers, she has gained many, even in the age of the e-book. The writers who live in our small community know and love her and work with her all of the time. She is also a devoted mother and wife, she is careful to balance her life, she operates a wonderful bookstore, but it does not consume  her, at least not yet.

How fortunate we are to have so great a bookstore in so small a town. New York City would love to have that kind of store in Manhattan, but the rents there make it impossible.

She always has a slightly bemused look in her eye. People from all over the country – many of the blog readers here – call the store often and buy all of their books from Connie. So she not only has local customers, but many around the country. People are hungry for the advice, patience and courtesy that is the hallmark of the store. it would be a great shame if our only source of books was the very corporate-driven books at Amazon.

Connie’s staff is gracious and helpful and patient. They are happy to talk with people.  Community lives, so does the small and independent bookstore, even in the face of the great corporate tsunami sweeping America. Connie Brooks has helped to save them.