Читать книгу The Roots that Clutch - Thomas Esposito - Страница 5

Dear Reader,

You may not be a fan of poetry, but I want to tell you about a delightful poem I have long admired. The poem is entitled “Digging,” and in short and simple verses the great Irishman Seamus Heaney fondly presents his recollections of the gardening his father and grandfather loved to do. He visualizes the spade sinking “into gravelly ground,” his father “stooping in rhythm” as he digs in flower beds and potato patches. He boasts of his grandfather’s legendary ability to cut turf, and recalls the smells and sensations of his own handling of potatoes and “soggy peat.” All of this comes to him in the form of memories, as “living roots awaken in my head.”1

Rather than take up that same generational trade, though, Heaney regards his pen as his humble instrument of choice, claiming he has “no spade to follow men like them. / Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests. / I’ll dig with it.” It is with his poetic pen, rather than his father’s tools, that Heaney hopes to break up the earth of the soul, and plant new seeds in the heart-soil of his readers. He accomplishes this in “Digging” by allowing his memories of family and farming to fertilize the seedbed of his lyrical mind. The poet, in other words, plunges the spade of his pen into the nourishing ground of his past, and that literary gardening yields a harvest of graced nourishment for his readers.

Have you ever pondered how marvelous roots are? Those of trees shoot downward, lunging slowly but firmly into the brown earth where they usually remain hidden from human eyes. Beneath the ground, they strengthen the visible trunk and branches, suck nutrients from the soil, and channel water to generate growth. I have heard that the intricate root system of a tree grows as wide and deep below as the width and height of the branches that stretch skyward. What we see from our earthen vantage point is mirrored, though undetected, beneath our feet.

The lotus flower pitches its roots in water rather than soil. Its leaves float gently on the water’s surface, and hold aloft a beautiful flower of colored petals. The physical characteristics of the lotus are the inspiration for its symbolic meaning in the great religions of Asia, especially Hinduism and Buddhism: the flower, escaping the illusory and murky world of sense experience represented by water, emerges above it, and opens itself to the world of union and contemplation symbolized by the limitless sky. In imitation of the transcendent flower, the lotus position is the basic starting point for yoga meditation in these Eastern traditions.

Just as the physical yields to the symbolic in the case of the lotus flower, so also are the roots of trees and plants employed in a variety of metaphorical ways. When individuals in the United States trace their ancestral lineage by means of a family tree, they often speak of their genealogical roots lying in the lands from which their ancestors emigrated. The study of language often features the concept of root letters, or consonants forming the foundation of nouns and verbs. The verb systems of Semitic languages such as Hebrew and Arabic are arranged according to a tri-literal root, meaning the basic structure of the verb is composed of three consonants around which prefixes and suffixes are added to create new words and shades of meaning. A religion such as Christianity, or a country such as India, possesses roots deeply embedded in a particular region, stretching for millennia into the soil of history. Whether doctrines or practices, dominant figures or defining historical events, the roots of a given religion, people, or nation nourish those living in the present with the sustenance of prior generations and traditions.

To bring Heaney’s poem and my musings on roots together, the book you are currently holding is the fruit of my own digging within myself to examine the roots and experiences which have formed me and nourished my thinking, praying, and being. In my previous epistolary collection, entitled Letters of Fire, I explain my indebtedness to T. S. Eliot for much of my early intellectual growth and enduring spiritual insight, and this present book of letters falls under his aegis once more.2 The title of this volume comes from lines 19–24 of his grand, strange, and immensely difficult poem “The Waste Land”:

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water.3

Eliot’s poem, penned in the aftermath of the First World War, portrays with an odd and cold starkness the desiccated wilderness of European lands and culture. On the surface of that “stony rubbish” that once was a grand civilization, the poet sees only shattered mirrors, “a heap of broken images,” an unrelenting waste land of howling desert. Whatever roots had nurtured the trees of religion and government and Western culture were now shriveled and naked, senselessly standing sentinel after so many torrents of destruction had devastated them. Eliot presents his jarring poem, full of sentence fragments and obscure literary references, as a reflection of the world he lives in, one in which the roots no longer support the trunk and branches of religion and civilization. The reader gets the nostalgically tragic sense that nothing from the past but fragments, presented as barren roots lacking any vitality, can be salvaged.

It is tempting to think the same of the world we inhabit today. The daily channeling of violence in the name of religion or ethnic strife, the worldwide uncertainty of a hopeful future for the next generation, the frequent (if only fleeting) triumph of ideologies of greed and repression, all contribute to the malaise which Eliot so acutely diagnosed in “The Waste Land.” If I may liken the Christian faith and the culture produced by that faith to a tree, its roots have been exposed for some time in the West due to a growing hostility to the supernatural. The desire of many secularist politicians is to see those roots wither, or even actively work to eradicate them. Eliot’s poem lends itself quite nicely to such a dire assessment of both secular and Christian culture.

But I refuse to succumb to such a temptation, however alluring and even comforting it often seems, and these letters explain why. Instead of transferring the plant to entirely new soil in which the roots can sink into more welcoming and fertile earth (whatever that might mean practically), I would rather do as Heaney does: make history and memories, however good or tinged with evil they might be, bear good fruit in the present and for the future. Each letter in this collection began, you might say, as a seed in my own soul. My aim was to analyze the roots that plunge into the fertile ground of my imagination. I am firmly convinced that my own Christian intellectual and cultural heritage has a vitalizing sap to channel to the men and women of the twenty-first century, whose hearts were made by a sower who scatters good seed. This desire to find what remains and make it grow again is a fundamental trait of Jewish and Christian faith.

You may very well think that a book of letters is a ridiculous way of pondering the origins of things and responding to the gigantic human failings and challenges of our time. I have no trouble imagining that a collection of epistles to an eclectic cast of personages, most of them dead or fictional, could strike you as downright absurd and not worth your while. Yet I find that such a format offers a uniquely refreshing perspective on the source of many realities, whether personal, cultural, or religious. In Letters of Fire, I drew inspiration from another T.S. Eliot poem, “Little Gidding” from Four Quartets, in which the poet observes the ability of the living to conduct a salutary conversation with the dead, a communication “tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.”4 The creation of an illuminating correspondence with deceased historical characters and literary figures, to change metaphors from one book to the next, puts down new roots in fresh soil, and can even vivify hopes long since dried up by despair or ignorance.

To be honest, I had no central theme unifying the letters in the first book, aside from my dilettantish love of learning. In both works, my focus is catholic in the small c sense: embracing, talking to, and sharing with anyone and everyone. Dialogue with the dead, I have found, is a strangely fruitful and vivifying enterprise! The specific concept of roots, though, gives a greater unity to the individual letters of this volume.

Many different meanings of roots and origins will overlap in the following pages. Some names of my addressees will be immediately familiar to you, but I am certain you have never heard of Captain James Harvey, or Fr. Aloysius Kimecz. My letters to these two men are part of a digging into the field of my own life: the former is a blood relative with roots stretching back to Ireland and Civil War-era Philadelphia, the latter a confrere and friend in the Cistercian Abbey I now call home. I did not devote much overt attention to the monastic aspect of my life in Letters of Fire, and the bookends of this new epistolary tome offer reflections on monk life and the inspiration that guides men and women to this radical way of serving God. St. Benedict and Taylor Swift (yes, you read that right) set the tone at the beginning, and two twentieth-century Cistercians who suffered horribly at the hands of the Communist regime in Hungary—Abbot Wendelin Endrédy and Fr. Aloysius—at the end.

Rather than tell you a story about where things like sin and egos and Punxsutawney Phil come from, I enlist the help of people who have better insight about some part of the human condition than myself. Eve, that ill-fated and maltreated mother of all the living, gets a new hearing in my analysis of Genesis 3 and its explanation of the perennial reality of sin and death (spoiler alert: Adam is just as culpable as the first woman!). Miss Havisham, one of the most haunting characters ever created by Mr. Charles Dickens, is the object of my musings on anger and its chilling effect on the human heart, created to be a hearth radiating merciful warmth. The earth itself is the focus of my letter to the two peasants posing in a beautiful painting by Jean-François Millet entitled The Angelus. The beloved Dr. Seuss presumably will not take my letter to him kindly, since I castigate him for making millions of children think they are almighty Pelagians and the sole protagonists in their own super-duper-special universe. If you don’t know what a Pelagian is, you will after perusing that letter, and then hopefully you will understand why Oh! The Places You’ll Go! encourages its readers to become selfish ego-monsters. To Kisa Gotami, an early follower of the Buddha, I ask how her understanding of perennial questions about suffering and the self harmonize with or differ from my own Christian perspective.

Seeds are a primary topic of my letter to Heraclitus, a philosopher who lived centuries before Jesus. I get him up to speed on the work of the Christian philosophers St. John and St. Justin Martyr, who both wrote about the same idea of logos found in the extant fragments of his works that have come down to us. St. John defines the logos, which we usually render as “word” in English, as the person Jesus Christ, and St. Justin Martyr asserts that Greek philosophers such as Heraclitus possessed logoi spermatikoi, or seeds of the word, even before the time of Christ. What this means is that partial truths or insights about God and beauty and happiness may be gleaned in fields outside the confines of the Christian faith, and can even help us come to comprehend the infinite majesty of God and the gift of Christ to all human hearts longing for the full breadth of the Logos.

Not all seeds sown in the human heart, however, are healthy or life-giving. In some of these letters, I unearth the roots of current social maladies, especially in my beloved United States of America. In the letters to Martin Luther King Jr. and Roberto Clemente, I lament the racism that continues to ruin lives and cripple relationships between blacks, whites, and Hispanics in my country. Poor Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone, stands on the wrong end of a rant about how his brainchild, the cell phone, has become the source of undeniable social regress and the stupidification of those caught in its screeny thrall. Lyle Alzado, a football lineman convinced that his steroid use killed him, is the recipient of a meditation on the crazed lust for athletic glory and the lack of restraint in the human will. The origins of greed are the object of my reminiscence to Nike, the goddess of victory and patron of the shoe and clothing empire today, about a humorous incident from my days as an impulsive child.

Sprinkled in the midst of such letters are others dedicated to topics of spirituality and faith. Several biblical characters who have always fascinated me get some unexpected fan mail, such as the sinful woman from Luke 7, Barabbas, and Barnabas. Saints and heroes of mine—most notably Benedict, Thomas More (my namesake in religion), and Bernadette—deserve special mention. Having set foot on the streets of Jerusalem, I wanted to pen a letter to the holy city to clarify my own thoughts on the possibility of peace in this world. The concluding letter to Galadriel, the beautiful elven lady from The Lord of the Rings, is a testimony to hope and graceful fortitude. I think the tone and content of that final note, one of “hope without guarantees,” express the essence of my intention with this collection.

And so, good reader, I invite you to think of these pages as seeds of the Logos which I wish to scatter in the fertile soil of your mind and heart. They have fallen onto paper from the tree of my mind, and contain the genetic material of my own personality, history, beliefs, and sense of humor. If given proper watering and cultivation by you in the form of reading and perhaps even praying about them, I hope you will observe them grow, and perhaps even sprout roots and furnish you with vitalizing intellectual and spiritual nutrients. If they don’t accomplish this admittedly grandiose purpose, at least I can take comfort knowing that I did a little digging in the garden of my soul, and harvested much fruit for myself in the process.

God bless,

Fr. Thomas

1. Heaney, “Digging,” 3–4.

2. Esposito, Letters of Fire, xi–xii.

3. Eliot, The Complete Poems and Plays, 38.

4. Ibid., 139.