The Contrariness of the Mad Farmer
I am done with apologies. If contrariness is my
inheritance and destiny, so be it. If it is my mission
to go in a exits and come out at entrances, so be it.
I have planted by the stars in defiance of the experts,
and tilled somewhat by incantation and by singing,
and reaped, as I knew, by luck and Heaven's favor,
in spite of the best advice. If I have been caught
so often laughing at funerals, that was because
I knew the dead were already slipping away,
preparing a comeback, and can I help it?
And if at wedding I have gritted and gnashed
my teeth, it was because I knew where the bridegroom
had sunk his manhood, and knew it would not
be resurrected by a piece of cake. "Dance," they told me,
and I stood still, and while they stood
quiet in line at the gate of the Kingdom, I danced.
"Pray," they said, and I laughed, covering myself
in the earth's brightnesses, and then stole off gray
into the midst of a revel, and prayed like an orphan.
When they said, "I know that my Redeemer liveth,"
I told them, "He's dead." And when they told me,
"God is dead," I answered, "He goes fishing every day
in the Kentucky River. I see Him often."
When they asked me would I like to contribute
I said no, and when they had collected
more than they needed, I gave them as much as I had.
When they asked me to join them I wouldn't,
and then went off by myself and did more
than they would have asked. "Well, then," they said
"go and organize the International Brotherhood
of Contraries," and I said, "Did you finish killing
everybody who was against peace?" So be it.
Going against men, I have heard at times a deep harmony
thrumming in the mixture, and when they ask me what
I say I don't know. It is not the only or the easiest
way to come to the truth. It is one way.
—Wendell Berry
Last week was busy. There were meetings for new projects, class, packing for our week-long trip to Ohio, dad's memorial, and the potatoes au gratin for 60 to go with it. Auntie had asked for me to say something at the dinner, but there was so much to do, it was a great excuse not to have to think about it. I purposely decided not to prepare anything so that I could more easily opt out of any speech—the thought of having to stand up in front of so many people to bare my soul over my father was gut wrenching. But now, here I sit, trying to fulfill my obligation to myself to complete the challenge I signed up for, and needing to publish a post for the week. All I can think of to write is my father's eulogy.
The poem above is how I would have opened. I've always loved this piece; of all the poetry I've ever read, this is the best to me. I love the contrariness, the seeming irreverence. I love that God is seen in Nature—fishing—and not in the politics of man. And I love that death is a thing to possibly be celebrated, knowing that another adventure awaits us after we leave these houses.
This poem sums up my opinions of my dad. He's been irreverent from the start. Not unloving in the least, he's just incredibly defiant of anyone who might try and keep him in any certain line. There's something about his character that might be called Heyoka, the Sacred Clown. That was definitely dad, always jovial, and sometimes a little backward. Being his daughter, I have not always enjoyed these qualities. Not being one to be held down did not always work in my favor when it came to his "obligations" as a father; things like regular visits sometimes got sacrificed for the thrills of dredge mining with drunk indians in the hills of the Hoopa reservation. I was always so hurt when he wouldn't show up on time, or sometimes just wouldn't show up; but in the end, I know he was Spirit lead, and if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans—the only real appointment book is Nature's. Those adventures do make for great stories, however, and he certainly shared a great life with a lot of people along the way. The very things that hurt me so deeply as a little girl are the very qualities that made so many love him so dearly. These are also qualities I have seen reflected in me, and now that he's gone I'm having new considerations for his casting in this life. That free-spirit irreverence is what funded his lust for life and deep appreciation for the workings of the Universe, and they have contributed greatly to my desire to live a full life, unconventionally and with reverence to the Majestic.
He was fairly unapologetic for his timing, and was often heard proudly exclaiming any number of cliches on tardiness: better late than never; if I'm not late, I'm not coming; and my personal favorite, I'll be late for my own funeral! Who knows, he probably was—especially considering all the many times he frightened his family by cheating Death. This is a Willes trait that seems to be written into our DNA, and fighting time sometimes seems to be like telling a salmon to find another place to spawn.
A great deal of compassion for who my father was has come to me with age, and more has come with therapy, but the most healing of our relationship (unfortunately) has come with his passing. Now, there is only the him inside of me to have a connection with. There is only acceptance or denial. No more wishing for things to be other than what they are, and no more, "maybe tomorrow".
With his life, he taught me so many things about life, love, beauty, and resourcefulness. He taught me how to observe nature to live, how to eat like a king when out in the wild, and how to keep it around for future feasts, he taught me how to climb rocks, traverse streams, how to keep warm with leaves on a cold night in the woods, and how to catch a second wind by breathing deeply of a crushed California Bay leaf when out on a trail. He taught me how to get high on adrenaline, cannabis, sex, and booze, and to enjoy these pleasures of the flesh, because all too quickly, our merriments will be gone. He taught me that often playing hard means working hard.
With his death, he is teaching me to act, because the world in our head only exists up there.
I wish I had done more acting when he was alive. I wish I could have put aside my pain from the past, and had a relationship in the present. I wish I could have accepted what was, instead of wishing for what was in my head. I wish, I wish, I wish... But as mom says, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
There are no wishes.
There is only what is.
Thank you dad for all that you've shown me.
I look forward to deepening my relationship with you as I deepen my relationship with me.
I am done with apologies. If contrariness is my
inheritance and destiny, so be it. If it is my mission
to go in a exits and come out at entrances, so be it.
I have planted by the stars in defiance of the experts,
and tilled somewhat by incantation and by singing,
and reaped, as I knew, by luck and Heaven's favor,
in spite of the best advice. If I have been caught
so often laughing at funerals, that was because
I knew the dead were already slipping away,
preparing a comeback, and can I help it?
And if at wedding I have gritted and gnashed
my teeth, it was because I knew where the bridegroom
had sunk his manhood, and knew it would not
be resurrected by a piece of cake. "Dance," they told me,
and I stood still, and while they stood
quiet in line at the gate of the Kingdom, I danced.
"Pray," they said, and I laughed, covering myself
in the earth's brightnesses, and then stole off gray
into the midst of a revel, and prayed like an orphan.
When they said, "I know that my Redeemer liveth,"
I told them, "He's dead." And when they told me,
"God is dead," I answered, "He goes fishing every day
in the Kentucky River. I see Him often."
When they asked me would I like to contribute
I said no, and when they had collected
more than they needed, I gave them as much as I had.
When they asked me to join them I wouldn't,
and then went off by myself and did more
than they would have asked. "Well, then," they said
"go and organize the International Brotherhood
of Contraries," and I said, "Did you finish killing
everybody who was against peace?" So be it.
Going against men, I have heard at times a deep harmony
thrumming in the mixture, and when they ask me what
I say I don't know. It is not the only or the easiest
way to come to the truth. It is one way.
—Wendell Berry
Last week was busy. There were meetings for new projects, class, packing for our week-long trip to Ohio, dad's memorial, and the potatoes au gratin for 60 to go with it. Auntie had asked for me to say something at the dinner, but there was so much to do, it was a great excuse not to have to think about it. I purposely decided not to prepare anything so that I could more easily opt out of any speech—the thought of having to stand up in front of so many people to bare my soul over my father was gut wrenching. But now, here I sit, trying to fulfill my obligation to myself to complete the challenge I signed up for, and needing to publish a post for the week. All I can think of to write is my father's eulogy.
The poem above is how I would have opened. I've always loved this piece; of all the poetry I've ever read, this is the best to me. I love the contrariness, the seeming irreverence. I love that God is seen in Nature—fishing—and not in the politics of man. And I love that death is a thing to possibly be celebrated, knowing that another adventure awaits us after we leave these houses.
This poem sums up my opinions of my dad. He's been irreverent from the start. Not unloving in the least, he's just incredibly defiant of anyone who might try and keep him in any certain line. There's something about his character that might be called Heyoka, the Sacred Clown. That was definitely dad, always jovial, and sometimes a little backward. Being his daughter, I have not always enjoyed these qualities. Not being one to be held down did not always work in my favor when it came to his "obligations" as a father; things like regular visits sometimes got sacrificed for the thrills of dredge mining with drunk indians in the hills of the Hoopa reservation. I was always so hurt when he wouldn't show up on time, or sometimes just wouldn't show up; but in the end, I know he was Spirit lead, and if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans—the only real appointment book is Nature's. Those adventures do make for great stories, however, and he certainly shared a great life with a lot of people along the way. The very things that hurt me so deeply as a little girl are the very qualities that made so many love him so dearly. These are also qualities I have seen reflected in me, and now that he's gone I'm having new considerations for his casting in this life. That free-spirit irreverence is what funded his lust for life and deep appreciation for the workings of the Universe, and they have contributed greatly to my desire to live a full life, unconventionally and with reverence to the Majestic.
He was fairly unapologetic for his timing, and was often heard proudly exclaiming any number of cliches on tardiness: better late than never; if I'm not late, I'm not coming; and my personal favorite, I'll be late for my own funeral! Who knows, he probably was—especially considering all the many times he frightened his family by cheating Death. This is a Willes trait that seems to be written into our DNA, and fighting time sometimes seems to be like telling a salmon to find another place to spawn.
A great deal of compassion for who my father was has come to me with age, and more has come with therapy, but the most healing of our relationship (unfortunately) has come with his passing. Now, there is only the him inside of me to have a connection with. There is only acceptance or denial. No more wishing for things to be other than what they are, and no more, "maybe tomorrow".
With his life, he taught me so many things about life, love, beauty, and resourcefulness. He taught me how to observe nature to live, how to eat like a king when out in the wild, and how to keep it around for future feasts, he taught me how to climb rocks, traverse streams, how to keep warm with leaves on a cold night in the woods, and how to catch a second wind by breathing deeply of a crushed California Bay leaf when out on a trail. He taught me how to get high on adrenaline, cannabis, sex, and booze, and to enjoy these pleasures of the flesh, because all too quickly, our merriments will be gone. He taught me that often playing hard means working hard.
With his death, he is teaching me to act, because the world in our head only exists up there.
I wish I had done more acting when he was alive. I wish I could have put aside my pain from the past, and had a relationship in the present. I wish I could have accepted what was, instead of wishing for what was in my head. I wish, I wish, I wish... But as mom says, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
There are no wishes.
There is only what is.
Thank you dad for all that you've shown me.
I look forward to deepening my relationship with you as I deepen my relationship with me.
Very good Jen, happy trails to you.
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