Some Intervention from Wendell Berry

There is a point during Ramadan where the fast becomes an uncle who has stayed so long you take him for granted. And the original joy and beuaty of his presence is dulled, often forgotten. Habits manage to conduct themselves despite ragged, rationed senses. The worst in you is slowed to fox trot but agile in its persistence, in its ability to live as long as you have. For once, the man in the mirror knows less than you. And the miracles are now ones of habit's obstinacy in the face of determined non-allegiance. Reading Wendell Berry in the back of what seemed an ambulance this morning, after awakening from hit-and-run dreams about past loves, I came to my heightened, yet quieted senses. Today I must once again talk to this visitor named Ramadan as an honored guest, ask him the questions he came to answer, treat him with renewed respect before politics eats me alive. I want to thank Wendell for teaching me good manners this morning. And I want to thank my soul for its ceasless prayer and praise.

Here's some of what Wendell said:

I know for a while again
the health of self-forgetfulness,
looking out at the sky through
a notch in the valley side,
the black woods wintry on
the hills, small clouds at sunset
passing across. And I know
that this is one of the thresholds
between Earth and Heaven,
from which even I may step
forth from my self and be free.

* * * * *

1
We follow the dead to their graves,
and our love follows on
beyond, crying to them, not
"Come back!" but merely "Wait!"
In waking thoughts, or dreams
we follow after, calling, "Wait!
Listen! I am older now. I know
now how it was with you
when you were old and I
was only young. I am ready
now to accompany you
in your lonely fear." And they
go on, one by one, as one
by one we go as they have gone.

2
And yet we are all gathered
in this leftover love,
this longing beyong the measure
of a joy all mounrers know.
An old man's mind is a graveyard
where the dead arise

* * * * *

The incarnate Word is with us,
is still speaking, is present
always, yet leaves no sign
but everything that is.

--Wendell Berry, from the "Sabbath Poems" found in his latest book of poems, "Given," Shoemaker & Hoard, Emeryville, California, 2006

One last thought: so much of the fear of Muslims that I see boil up and over in many of my friends is simply lack of contact. As a Sufi, most of the people I know live in Muslim households and communities. And not one of them bears arms or grudges against Jews and Christians; all are people you would welcome in your homes. The only healing henceforth will be trust--trust developed through contact. When the president of Iran came here, Bush should have broke Ramadan bread with him. Synagogues should have invited him to prayers and dedicated the Yom Kipur fast to their Muslim brothers observing Ramadan. If Carter or Clinton had been in office, I believe there would have been greeting and meeting, conversation and exchange. Too many chances for commonality, communication and--dare I wish for it?--communion have been missed. America, I fear, has lost its reputation for and saving grace of hospital-ity. My beloved country, please prove me wrong soon.