The people who influence us most are not those who buttonhole us and talk to us, but those who live their lives like the stars in heaven and the lilies in the field, perfectly simply and unaffectedly.
Those are the lives that mold us.
~Oswald Chambers, May 18th Careful Unreasonableness
Easier said than done, I am a fortunate one…
This year I took my first crack at writing some of my own poetry. I did not go to the pen willingly; I was forced to out of desperation, dragged there actually by a 67 year old woman with a well tended garden. Once I got there I found at first an oasis of relief in bloodletting, and then slowly, a new world of imagination to explore everything that has ever moved me to think or feel. Carl has been living there for years. I remember reading a smaller collection of his poetry about 5 years ago, in my mid 20s. I identified with certain poems about the doldrums of the work life and some of the searching out of faith, but to be honest… I was barely aware then, and now I feel like I am just waking up out of what seems like a shamefully long sleep. I didn’t need poetry then, sure I could be inspired by the lyrics of a song, but I didn’t need it to survive… for my soul to breath, to be a “soul survivor”.
Being asked to write this afterward to his work feels a little bit like being invited to write a review of a movie I watched with my eyes closed. I have been there, but I was barely conscious at the time. When I surveyed the bibliography of his poetry books dating back to 1996, I thought… “What did I put down in 96?”… and then I realized my kindred connection to Carl. In 1996 I wrote my senior English thesis paper on “The Meaning of Life”… can you get any more pretentious at 18? Naively ambitious, for sure, but even then I felt this strange yearning to grapple with the transcendent and still find meaning in the ordinary, in the regular, in the stuff of life. I spent the next decade hardly writing anything, I was preoccupied with figuring out equations, playing with computer software, and looking around the next corner of life. I did a fair amount of reading, but writing… I don’t think that was something I was honest or brave enough to do then. I am glad that Carl was.
And maybe this opportunity to read and consider his work is something like writing the poetry I have been unconsciously living for the past decade. All those moments that just brushed by me can be redeemed by the appreciation of the word. All those conversations that I just let go through me have a chance to penetrate now the way they should have years ago… when I read a thoughtful word, a carefully chosen phrase, a spiritually guided declaration, a soulful proclamation: It hurts now because it should have then.
In my first reading through this collection I was instantly put at ease with opening poem, Black Highway… I was first introduced to it in song form by our friend Chris Waterman several years ago. It grabbed me then and I knew it was special… slowing down with the words on that first page confirmed my suspicions, this was going to be a good ride. I wouldn’t be driving, but looking out the window as an invited passenger instead.
During that initial submission to the words washing over me, I was struck by the progression and arrangement more than anything. These felt like songs. I am hardly the connoisseur of music that Carl is, I must admit many of his references are going to take some research for me to fully appreciate. But I have picked up on the value of the album. This collection of poetry is like 7 separate albums. Those seven chapters almost felt like intentional movements of a concert or opera. Chapter one had me in the car before I knew where we were going, and by the end of the ride I trusted the driver completely. I visited some very familiar landscape, like the interior of the American soul on the open road. By chapter seven I felt like I had been taken through the whole of it and laid to rest back in the arms of faith. I would invite anyone to ride shotgun with Carl, you can borrow my copy… but it will be lent with extreme reluctance.
Thanks for creating and inspiring…
The essence of childhood is innocence. The essence of youth is awareness. The essence of adulthood is responsibility. This book is for people and a Christian community on the threshold of cultural responsibility.
What is most needed in our time are Christians who are deeply serious about cultivating and creating but who wear that seriousness lightly—who are not desperately trying to change the world but who also wake up every morning eager to create.
I hope friends will read this book and begin to envision their friendships not just as the companionship of compatible individuals but as potentially transformative partnerships in the places where they live, study, work and play.
~Andy Crouch, Culture Making
I am looking forward to having a good many conversations shaped by this reading. Very thankful for the voices helping the boy and the cynic find a place where we can both play fair.
Today we listen to stories told by strangers from New York, Nashville, and Los Angeles and we tell our stories to the police and psychiatrists.
~Wendell Berry, The Work of Local Culture
Over the past 6 years I have had the good fortune of living in the same suburban neighborhood of Livonia Michigan; some call it Clements Circle, others “the hood”, and to a few its known as “the SuperHood”.
Looking back its hard to measure the value of living in a neighborhood where you can know your neighbors. I am especially fortunate seeing as a good handful of my neighborhood relationships trace their roots back to college, almost 10 years ago now.
Getting to know people takes time. The pace of today’s scattered life activity hardly encourages the slow process of becoming known and knowing your neighbors. Fortunately I have some very hospitable neighbors, and a dog that likes to get around the neighborhood… so I have been able to meet a few over the past 5 years.
Joe Chapp helped me (I watched mostly, note the difference in shirt soiling above) pull out a couple of especially stubborn bushes back in 2005 and since then I have been invited out to a regular evening bonfire complete with pizza and box wine. In these evenings of casual neighborhood discussion and story telling I have learned much about the Chapp family history, struggles, and whimsical life enjoyments. There is a strange sort of comfort that comes from this activity of simply sharing, life just makes a lot of sense when presented in this context.
And aside from the general feelings of comfortableness there are specific encouragements and challenges. I learned that the Chapp family prays for the neighborhood regularly, including the success of my business; what a humbling honor. I also learned that the bus comes at 7:50 and it would mean a lot to the Chapps’ if I would look out for their daughter and make sure she makes it onto the bus without incident. Talk about tangible community responsibility and a reason to get up on time.
People used to practice what they called “sitting till bedtime”, where neighbors used to walk across the fields to sit in someone else’s home until dark and then go home and they would tell stories about themselves and people who had died and the children would hear the stories.
~Ken Myers on “The Work of Local Culture”
For all of us seemingly caught in-between life; wondering what the heck is going on, what went wrong, how did I end up here, where am I going next, and what am I doing with myself… I believe this little movie offers some real encouragement, and if not answers… perhaps some reminders that are even better.
Kabluey caught a hold of me while I was on the down side of smobing about something, well perhaps nothing, but I was doing my darnedest to feel sorry for myself anyway… In the first moments of the film I met a family in comedic disarray due to a father on military duty in Iraq. Then I met a wife who misses her husband, two little boys looking for their father, and all the typical issues of life thrown on top with financial insecurity for good measure. My woes could not compare to this fictional yet realistic predicament, and I was forced to let them go in exchange for a little bit of empathy.
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Whenever a film helps me do that, and step outside of my would be film maker critique, I pay attention. I gave in to the story and went along for the ride. Salman, the unassuming brother in law black sheep, arrives on the scene purely of his availability. A haphazard job search ends him in the role of corporate mascot donning a pathetic blue costume. It’s a ridiculous job, and I am sure many can relate to the strange disconnect between work exhaustion and any sense of cogent meaning or significance.
Salman, however, has something special that makes him a hero, he’s selfless. When trite truths are done proper justice, they always get new life.
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The cast is graced with a few names, but the overall production feels like the best of indipendent film. I am sure I am giving this film much more credit than it deserves in terms of pacing, editing style, and performances… but it delivers the message, and it ends strong. I am beginning to realize just how difficult it is to end a film well, and I think this one does. Commitment, pursuit, thoughtfulness, and a reunion come like a whirlwind as the film wraps up… and its a beautiful thing.
I think it is a mysterious gift when a completed film somehow becomes better than the sum of its technical achievement, plot ingenuity, and even acting performance would merit. Its inspiring to encounter that from time to time and be shown the good that is within the grasp of aspiring independent film makers…
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