October 19th, 2022—When times are troubling, how do you navigate toward wholeness and healing? What wisdom do you turn to that provides a solid place from which to weather through the difficulties swirling around you? What inner strength keeps you grounded when the challenges and turmoil threaten to send you flying into confusion and disorientation? I’m thinking of the numerous times in my teaching when my stumbles and face plants leave me wondering if I ever thought my calling was to teach and facilitate learning. And today as I look out from the relative safety of my living room, my heart is also troubled by international, national, state, and local calls for racial, economic, and social justice that are often repressed by powers dedicated to maintaining the status quo.
The poet Mary Oliver in her poem “Today” offers this guidance during troubled times: “the world goes on as it must”. Yikes, that feels like harsh advice from a poet known for her caring tone. She seems to be saying, what did you expect? Life is challenging. Get over your difficulties. Move on. Or perhaps her tone is soothing, a reassurance that despite trials and tribulations the natural pace and purpose of life persists. You must trust the wisdom of the world as it is structured, not how we would like it to be. It is also possible to read her tone as a frank assessment that the world is value neutral when it comes to human concerns. “The world goes on as it must”. It has no choice. It can’t slowdown or stop to attend to our wants and needs. What do you hear in her words? What world is she referencing? Is the word “must” the right word in your experience of navigating challenge that breaks the heart open?
I personally find a degree of comfort and reassurance in her declaration. I don’t have to feel like my work is essential to the smooth running of the world. I’m thinking of the world of my teaching, service, and scholarship. My ego would like to think that when I retire or if I suddenly quit, that some important aspect of the university will note my absence. That may be partially accurate but not fully true. The work of academia was here long before I arrived, and it will remain long after me. Yes, I have much to contribute, and I know my work and presence makes a difference. But Mary Oliver reminds me that ultimately what matters is not me individually but rather the way the collected whole, the world, moves along. It has its own internal wisdom and rhythm, a form of organic rationality that over time builds toward structure and coherency. This is a good thing because the challenges are too great for any one person to resolve or even begin to approach with clarity. We are of the world, and we must go on.
There are many forms of change in the world that are violent and thrive on death. Their goal is to control, constrain, and blunt the life force of wellness and personal fulfillment. This type of change must be resisted as it is dehumanizing. As I contemplate the various kinds of reform in the world that are life-giving rather than life-denying, I’m aware of the many ways that nature stirs up change with floods, storms, winds, and other forces that rearrange the natural landscape. Maybe some forms of disaster are a good thing, as they create spaces for newness. Richard Rohr, the Franciscan priest, notes that the natural rhythm of the world is “order, disorder, reorder”.
In the classroom this certainly feels right to me. If I insist on teaching the same material or use the same activities from previous years, I often find that the once successful lesson is now flat and less effective. My teaching becomes disordered because I’m not passionate about the lesson. I’m mostly going through the paces. Students feel this and they too are less committed to their learning. As the lesson crumbles, disorder results, which is a good thing. If I can hear the gifts of disorder as a reminder that I can do better, I can reorder my teaching in ways that resonate more with the heart than efficiency.
It might help to share the first stanza of Oliver’s poem because it contextualizes her advice and suggest another way to respond to the times of disorder and turmoil, “Today I’m flying low and I’m / not saying a word / I’m letting the voodoos of ambition sleep.” There are many things about this opening line that grab my attention. She invites me, and I hope you as well, to realize that at times it is important to “fly-low” to rest, renew, and retool. To yield to the deep need for change. I know many faculty, staff, and administrators who have a hard time saying “no”. I count myself in this group. It is easy, and I know this all too well myself, to say “yes” to the work. To always think that action is the best course to take. To always “fly-high” and take on more and more responsibilities and projects directed at keeping the world of education on an even keel.
I find myself, even though I’m regularly working from home, doing more work than when I drove to campus every day. I ask, how can that be? I guess it is because my “voodoos of ambition” are still wide awake. I’m a helper by nature and there sure is lots that can be done to heal, help, and care for others these days. But if I fly too high with my sense of indispensableness, I can lose track of the ground where the real work is done. I run the risk of working for change that I can track and build into my CV, instead of following my heart’s calling which has its own accountability structure.
In these challenging times, Mary Oliver reminds me to fly low at times. To slow down enough to get up close and personal to the world. To be present to the people and needs right around me. The rest of the world will go as it must. I don’t need to ask permission to do less. I only need to give myself the gift of stillness. Are there any ambitions you can set down for the moment in order to see your work as it should be, not as you are driven to achieve? What does it take to give yourself approval to fly low? Do you find comfort or discomfort in her affirmation that the “the world goes on as it must”?
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