Steady
Some fragmented thoughts on the strange solace of the sea, a memory of Pope Francis, a musical benediction, and the ongoing "Good Soil" tour
Tuesday, April 29
East Sandwich, Mass.
We’ve been coming to Cape Cod—to this same spot, on this same beach—for nearly twenty years. I say “same,” but it’s never the same. Every single time, it’s a surprise. The sands shift. Some days, there’s barely a wave, and Cape Cod Bay seems almost like a lake. Other times, it’s all foamy churn; the seas really do roar.
Henry David Thoreau visited Cape Cod three times between 1849 and 1855. He eventually compiled his notes and observations into a book. “The sea-shore is a sort of neutral ground, a most advantageous point from which to contemplate this world,” he writes. Then he says something that startled me: “It is even a trivial place. The waves forever rolling to the land are too far-travelled and untamable to be familiar.”
Trivial?
The word jarred me. To me, the seashore has always anything but trivial: Awe-inspiring, breathtaking, shouting with grandeur. Thoreau’s follow-up sentence does offer some clarification and context. I understand it to mean that we shouldn’t be fooled into believing we know the sea better than we actually can. These waters, they make me feel small in the best possible way.
“Though once there were more whales cast up here, I think that it was never more wild than now,” Thoreau writes. “We do not associate the idea of antiquity with the ocean, nor wonder how it looked a thousand years ago, as we do of the land, for it was equally wild and unfathomable always.” Why is that? How is it that something that never stops moving can also somehow be perceived as changeless? Technology has of course given us new insights into what happens in the deep. And we know that humans have made their mark, helping to warm the oceans. Still, some things do seem to stay much the same, including the wonder that the waters inspire.
It’s not just wonder: I don’t know why, no matter the weather, these waters consistently give me such solace too.
Perhaps it’s because of the stories they carry and the goodness they foster—plump briny Wellfleet oysters, fat quahog clams whose meat nourished the Wampanoag and whose shells were turned into wampum, the eelgrass that provides habitat and shelter for so many different species. Even on a day that seems forbidding, even nasty, to me, this bay still provides safety to other creatures. Thoreau mentioned whales. He’s right that there once were more of these magnificent beasts. I read a few days ago that researchers have counted about 180 North Atlantic right whales in the bay this month—nearly half the world’s population of these critically endangered marine mammals. These right whales winter off the coast of Florida and Georgia, and then journey north again each spring—and the scientists were thrilled to note the presence of several calves.
Perhaps it’s because the waves, gentle or fierce, always remind me of nature’s cycles. The sun summons the water to the skies, and the earth urges the water back down. We’re held by these forces. Our very lives rely on them.
Perhaps it’s because the sea compels me to remember that, though storms do come and though they might devastate, they will pass.
Amid the turbulence of these times, I hear the sea saying, Steady as she goes. Keep moving toward goodness. Continue to seek beauty. Persist in hope.
In Memoriam: In September 2015, Tristan and I, along with thousands of other people, made our way to Central Park in New York City, hoping for a glimpse of Pope Francis. We’re not much for big crowds or long waits. This isn’t something we’d ever done for anyone else, and we haven’t done it since.
Tristan is Catholic, and his middle name is Francis, after the same saint whom the Pope honored with his papal name. As we waited (and waited and waited), I did some people-watching. There was such diversity among the thousands gathered. How many stories intersected then and there? What led them to interrupt their normal routines to show up in this place? Then, finally, a tsunami of cheer announced the arrival of the Pope, in his Popemobile. The crowd rose as one, shouting and applauding, waving and holding all our cameras high to try to capture a shot of Francis.
I suspect his pastoral presence was part of the draw—an uncommon winsomeness that compelled even many of us who are not Catholic, a aura of rare hospitality that transcended sectarian and doctrinal differences. However significant our theological disagreements, we could recognize a shepherd who showed up.
During his pontificate, Francis visited the nations with the biggest Catholic populations—Brazil, Mexico, the Philippines, the U.S., the Democratic Republic of Congo. But he also was the first to go to Myanmar; Iraq; and Mongolia, which has fewer than 1,500 Catholics. He became the first pope to enter an active warzone, in 2015; amid civil war in the Central African Republic, he visited a mosque that was sheltering Muslim refugees. He told those in the sanctuary, “Together, we must say no to hatred, to revenge, and to violence, particularly that violence which is perpetrated in the name of a religion or of God himself. God is peace.” And in his last days, even while ailing, Pope Francis called the faithful at Holy Family parish in Gaza nearly nightly throughout the war to offer his encouragement.
He told us, too, how Christians could show up. “Following Jesus means learning how to come out of ourselves,” Francis said at his first general audience as pope, in 2013. “To reach out to others, to go to the outskirts of existence, to be the first to move towards our brothers and sisters, especially those who are most distant, those who are forgotten, those who are most in need of understanding, consolation, and help.”
Francis’s proactive, humane posture was and is so countercultural. His empathy, rooted in the humility that marked the entirety of his papacy, endured through his final Urbi et orbi address, delivered on Easter Sunday. “What a great thirst for death, for killing, we witness each day in the many conflicts raging in different parts of our world! How much violence we see, often even within families, directed at women and children! How much contempt is stirred up at times towards the vulnerable, the marginalized, and migrants!” he said. “The light of Easter impels us to break down the barriers that create division and are fraught with grave political and economic consequences. It impels us to care for one another.”
Eternal rest, grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
What’s stirring in your spirits these days? What can I hold with you—good, bad, celebratory, challenging?
What I’m Listening to: Since I’ve been thinking about the sea, here’s a song for you: Max Richter’s “Nor Earth, Nor Boundless Sea.” The title comes from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 65: “Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea/ But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,/ How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,/ Whose action is no stronger than a flower?”
Richter’s music has long moved me deeply. It feels simultaneously so expansive and so intimate, so mysterious and so compelling—much, I suppose, like the sea. There are actually nine parts to this piece, and I’m linking just to the last; if you like this, the other parts are easily found online or on your preferred streaming service. Wordless though it might be, it feels like a fitting benediction for this week.
The tour continues! I’m still riding the happiness of spending time in conversation with Krista Tippett at the Farminary last Friday. It was such a joy to give her a glimpse of the land, particularly at such a beautiful time of year, with the cherry trees in bloom and so much birdsong in the air.
Stops over the next week or so, in Massachusetts, Maryland, Virginia, and Illinois:
Thursday, May 1, 7 p.m., Cambridge, Mass., Porter Square Books. I’ll be in conversation with the writer and bookstagrammer Kristin T. Lee, who has been such an ardent advocate for Good Soil. I’m especially excited about because we share Cantonese heritage, so no question, we will be talking about food.
Friday, May 2, 7 p.m., Baltimore, Md., Emmanuel Episcopal Church (with the Ivy Bookshop). No conversation partner for this one, so I am going to have to figure out something to say.
Saturday, May 3, 10 a.m., Kensington, Md., St. Paul’s United Methodist Church. With Kaitlin Curtice, who is such a lovely presence and pays such gorgeous attention to nature.
Sunday, May 4, 3 p.m., Arlington, Va., Rock Spring UCC (with Fonts Books & Gifts). With Jia Lynn Yang. Elizabeth Dias of the New York Times was originally my conversation partner in Arlington, but she had to go to Rome on assignment; papal conclaves don’t care about book tours. Luckily for me, Jia Lynn, the national editor at the Times, graciously agreed to step in. In addition to being a stupendous journalist, she’s the author of One Mighty and Irresistible Tide: The Epic Struggle Over American Immigration, 1924-1965, an important work that also reveals her powerful intellect and her deep humanity. If you can’t make it in person, this event will be livestreamed here. Also, I will be preaching at Rock Spring UCC that morning, so if you like, please join us for worship, in-person or online, at 10 a.m.
Monday, May 5, 7:30 p.m., Annapolis, Md., First Presbyterian Church of Annapolis (with Park Books). I’ll be back with my dear Mihee Kim-Kort, who, since I last saw her, got a little Ph.D., so it’s the Rev. Dr. Mihee now.
Tuesday, May 6, 6 p.m., Henrico, Va., Book People Richmond. With the brilliant artist Lanecia Rouse, whom I wrote about in this newsletter a few years ago.
Wednesday, May 7, 7 p.m., Chicago, Ill., Bond Chapel at the University of Chicago (with the Seminary Co-op Bookstores). My conversation partner, Kenji Kuramitsu, is associate dean of community life at the University of Chicago’s Rockefeller Chapel. He’s also a wonderful human being and a longtime friend who is sure to ask insightful questions that annoy me.
Full tour schedule is here, including stops later in May as well as in June in North Carolina, Minnesota, and Pennsylvania.
Please join us! I’d love to be able to greet you in person. It has been such a gift to get to meet readers at every stop—some who have read my writing for years and others who just encountered my work for the first time. As I say in the acknowledgements to Good Soil, a story can be told, but it’s only complete when someone receives it. I also do not take for granted all the support from these wonderful conversation partners, these generous host venues, and these tremendous independent bookstores who continue to advocate for the importance of storytelling. Together, all of you make this work possible and sustainable.
Also? Yes, that is seven events in seven days. Yes, that is a lot for a shy introvert, and I am pre-tired. Yes, I would appreciate every good vibe and all the energy you can send my way.
With all my best wishes,
Jeff
Dear Jeff,
I bought your book for myself on my 76th birthday. I treat myself to reading a chapter or two every morning during my Quiet Time. I love it. It nourishes both my mind and my soul. God bless you immensely for sharing your journey with me.
I needed that meditation on the ocean tonight. I don't get to sit by the ocean as often as I'd like to. But I hold on to the knowledge that through all our human drama, the seaweed is swaying and the waves are crashing. The snails are moseying around on rocks. It steadies me to remember this.
I will "Keep moving toward goodness. Continue to seek beauty. Persist in hope." as best I can.
Praying for sustenance for you this week!