The Sea of Faith

This week’s dismaying Supreme Court decisions made me fear for the first time in my life for the future of our world, not our Democracy, always somewhat in doubt, but the spiritual, emotional and physical world we all live in.

Unable to sleep last night, I soothed myself by reciting the poem I’ve most recently memorized, “Sestina” by Elizabeth Bishop with its haunting line, “Time to plant tears, says the almanac”—and this is surely the time to plant tears.

That line led me to another, from Matthew Arnold’s poem, “Dover Beach”:

“The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.”

We seldom think or speak of a sea of faith, rent by sectarianism and what seems to be an almost inborn refusal to believe in anything. And now the faith some of us have maintained, unthinkingly, in the wisdom of the Supreme Court is washed away by the prejudices and stupidity and obsession with control of three old men, only two of them white.

What are we left with? Bereft of spiritual faith, our belief in the sanctity of spoken and written words betrayed by endless lies and hypocrisy, our innocence—if it can be called that—a ripe occasion for rip-offs by all kinds of hucksters, the very ground under our feet is splitting, and relatives and friends who can afford it are talking of fleeing the country.

Yes, but…

This morning at the Santa Fe Farmers’ Market, which I visit early every Saturday for my fresh produce, a dear friend sat with me as we ate our breakfast at an outdoor table. He showed me the dark potato-like stones he keeps in a pouch to warm his burritos, stones given him decades ago by a friend, of mysterious origin. They hold their heat all day.

And passed us walked a statuesque man, decked in the medals and ribbons of his own particular regalia, worn to go out in public with a certain style and confidence that was contagious—like the crisp blue cotton skirt with white rick-rack another friend was wearing when I ran into her yesterday—and I knew she washed, starched and ironed it herself.

And everywhere at the Market people alone or in duos packed their lettuce and chard along with the first tomatoes into baskets and bags and went away chattering and smiling.

I find hope in these small persistent miracles. “Dover Beach” is a cold dark English coast but it also inspired the World War II song, “The White Cliffs of Dover”—“There’ll be bluebirds over/The white cliffs of Dover/Tomorrow just you wait and see”. And the dismal kitchen of “Sestina” where even the almanac rains tears holds a small girl crayoning “A rigid house/ with a wandering path” and a flower bed where the almanac’s tears fall like rain.

And we have seven and a half inches of rain here in the high desert.

In Politics, New Mexico Farmer's Market Roe v Wade