The Grace Of Nature (2)
I dream of a quiet man
who explains nothing and defends
nothing, but only knows
where the rarest wildflowers
are blooming, and who goes
where they are and stands still
and finds that he is smiling
and not by his own will.
bardcat shared this poem by Wendell Berry as part of the chapter "The Grace of Nature" in his memoir. I had thought to make it the basis of an essay on nature, but when something has been said perfectly, as perfect as words can get, what can be added that doesn't detract?
Berry dreams of a quiet man. He doesn't say he is one or even that he knows one (though he probably is and does). But he can dream and describe to us his dream that some of us might want to be that "quiet man.'
This quiet dream man explains nothing and defends nothing. Is that a good thing? Aren't there some things that should be explained and some (not necessarily the same ones) that are worth defending? All i know is that as i grow up the list of things that need explaining and defending is shrinking. People who refuse to explain things or defend things know much more than i know, and the things they know do not require explanation or defense, and they are coming to have more value to me than anything i think i can explain or think i should defend. When i try to explain things or defend things, what i am mostly doing is defending my ego. and the quiet man does not explain or defend because he has lost his smaller self, which is why his smile is spontaneous and genuine.
This dreamed of quiet man knows only where the rarest wildflowers are blooming, and he goes there, and stands still, and smiles. He does not pick them for a bouquet, and he does do botanical study, and he does not, so far as i know, determine their names or species. He stands still, and looks, and smiles.
Maybe wildflowers aren't your thing. They weren't mine for a very long time. But sometimes a "haphazard" arrangement of rock and sand and sky, or maybe rock and water would grab my attention, and i might say:
This cannot be, but it is and know how Moses must have felt at the burning bush, or John Muir at Yosemite. or Solovyev in the EgyptIan desert dawn.
And finally, at least at the end of the poem, he "finds himself smiling and not by his own will. Then why? He does not say. Just one more thing he does not or cannot explain and cannot or will not defend.
Well, i have detracted enough from this perfect poem.
May i dream this quiet man.
May i know a quiet man.
May i be a quiet man.
who stands in awe
before what is truly awesome.
who explains nothing and defends
nothing, but only knows
where the rarest wildflowers
are blooming, and who goes
where they are and stands still
and finds that he is smiling
and not by his own will.
bardcat shared this poem by Wendell Berry as part of the chapter "The Grace of Nature" in his memoir. I had thought to make it the basis of an essay on nature, but when something has been said perfectly, as perfect as words can get, what can be added that doesn't detract?
Berry dreams of a quiet man. He doesn't say he is one or even that he knows one (though he probably is and does). But he can dream and describe to us his dream that some of us might want to be that "quiet man.'
This quiet dream man explains nothing and defends nothing. Is that a good thing? Aren't there some things that should be explained and some (not necessarily the same ones) that are worth defending? All i know is that as i grow up the list of things that need explaining and defending is shrinking. People who refuse to explain things or defend things know much more than i know, and the things they know do not require explanation or defense, and they are coming to have more value to me than anything i think i can explain or think i should defend. When i try to explain things or defend things, what i am mostly doing is defending my ego. and the quiet man does not explain or defend because he has lost his smaller self, which is why his smile is spontaneous and genuine.
This dreamed of quiet man knows only where the rarest wildflowers are blooming, and he goes there, and stands still, and smiles. He does not pick them for a bouquet, and he does do botanical study, and he does not, so far as i know, determine their names or species. He stands still, and looks, and smiles.
Maybe wildflowers aren't your thing. They weren't mine for a very long time. But sometimes a "haphazard" arrangement of rock and sand and sky, or maybe rock and water would grab my attention, and i might say:
This cannot be, but it is and know how Moses must have felt at the burning bush, or John Muir at Yosemite. or Solovyev in the EgyptIan desert dawn.
And finally, at least at the end of the poem, he "finds himself smiling and not by his own will. Then why? He does not say. Just one more thing he does not or cannot explain and cannot or will not defend.
Well, i have detracted enough from this perfect poem.
May i dream this quiet man.
May i know a quiet man.
May i be a quiet man.
who stands in awe
before what is truly awesome.