Frederick Buechner, The Longing for Home, “The Journey Toward Wholeness”:

The world floods in on all of us. The world can be kind, and it can be cruel. It can be beautiful, and it can be appalling. It can give us good reason to hope and good reason to give up all hope. It can strengthen our faith in a loving God, and it can decimate our faith. In our lives in the world, the temptation is always to go where the world takes us, to drift with whatever current happens to be running strongest. When good things happen, we rise to heaven; when bad things happen, we descend to hell. When the world strikes out at us, we strike back, and when one way or another the world blesses us, our spirits soar. I know this to be true of no one as well as I know it to be true of myself. I know how just the weather can affect my whole state of mind for good or ill, how just getting stuck in a traffic jam can ruin an afternoon that in every other way is so beautiful that it dazzles the heart. We are in constant danger of being not actors in the drama of our own lives but reactors. The fragmentary nature of our experience shatters us into fragments. Instead of being whole, most of the time we are in pieces, and we see the world in pieces, full of darkness at one moment and full of light the next.

It is in Jesus, of course, and in the people whose lives have been deeply touched by Jesus, and in ourselves at those moments when we also are deeply touched by him, that we see another way of being human in this world, which is the way of wholeness. When we glimpse that wholeness in others, we recognize it immediately for what it is, and the reason we recognize it, I believe, is that no matter how much the world shatters us to pieces, we carry inside us a vision of wholeness that we sense is our true home and that beckons to us. It is part of what the book of Genesis means by saying that we are made in the image of God. It is part of what Saint Paul means by saying that the deepest undercurrent of all creation is the current that seeks to draw us toward what he calls mature humanhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ.

I picture Jesus at the Last Supper when he had every reason to understand that the end was upon him—not as an old crone in a dark little room saying good-bye to her grandson and his family but as a young man in a dark little room saying good-bye to life itself and everything he had lived for and was prepared to die for. I picture him looking around at the twelve friends and making an unforgettable utterance. “Peace I leave with you,” he says, when you would have thought he had no peace at all anywhere. “My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid” (John 14:27).

The kind of peace that the world gives is the peace we experience when for a little time the world happens to be peaceful. It is a peace that lasts for only as long as the peaceful time lasts because as soon as the peaceful time ends, the peace ends with it. The peace that Jesus offers, on the other hand, has nothing to do with the things that are going on at the moment he offers it, which are for the most part tragic and terrible things. It is a peace beyond the reach of the tragic and terrible. It is a profound and inward peace that sees with unflinching clarity the tragic and terrible things that are happening and yet is not shattered by them. He loves his friends enough to be more concerned for their frightened and troubled hearts than he is for his own, and yet his love for his friends is no more where his peace comes from than his impending torture and death are where his peace will be destroyed. His peace comes not from the world but from something whole and holy within himself which sees the world also as whole and holy because deep beneath all the broken and unholy things that are happening in it even as he speaks, Jesus sees what he calls the Kingdom of God.

All his life long, wherever Jesus looked, he saw the world not in terms simply of its brokenness—a patchwork of light and dark calling forth in us now our light, now our dark—but in terms of the ultimate mystery of God’s presence buried in it like a treasure buried in a field. It is not just that the Kingdom is like a pearl of great price, like a mustard seed, like leaven. It is indeed like them in ways that Jesus suggests in his parables, but it is also within them as it is also within us. Pearls, seeds, fields, leaven, the human heart, all of them carry within them something of the holiness of their origin. It is the wholest and realest part of their reality and of ours. Sinners are made in the image of God no less than saints. Even a sparrow fallen dead by the roadside is transparent to holiness. To be whole, I believe, is to see the world like that. To see the world like that, as Jesus saw it, is to be whole. And sometimes I believe that even people like you and me see it like that. Sometimes even in the midst of our confused and broken relationships with ourselves, with each other, with God, we catch glimpses of that holiness and wholeness which, no matter how buried and unrecognized, are still part of who we are.

Matthew Giambrone:

We thought of measurement and its purpose the other day as we read that the tornado in Menasha, Wisconsin, was measured as an “EF-3” storm. It seems somehow a very tidy and comfortable designation for an event that caused such suffering and destruction; surely we should measure such an event on a more human scale. As it happens, however, that’s exactly what the EF scale does do.

As a scale for measuring tornadoes, the EF Scale runs from o to 5, and the designation means “Enhanced Fujita Scale.” The original Fujita Scale was developed by Tetsuya Theodore “Ted” Fujita, a University of Chicago meteorologist, precisely to designate tornadoes by the degree of damage they cause. His work in that and related areas were among the most important developments in the history of meteorology, the study and measurement of weather.

Fujita Tetsuya was born in Kitakyushu City, Japan, in 1920. He took his degree in mechanical engineering in 1943, and by the following year was an assistant professor of physics at the Meiji College of Technology. On August 9, 1945, an American plane was scheduled to drop the atomic bomb designated “Fat Man” on the Kokura railway, a few miles from Professor Fujita’s home, but because of cloudy weather it turned instead to Nagasaki. In the aftermath, the Japanese government asked Professor Fujita to investigate what had happened. By using the burn shadows on the insides of bamboo stakes used to place flowers in Nagasaki cemeteries, he was able to determine the location and height of the bomb at the moment of detonation.

[…]

An F-3 tornado, for instance, is characterized in the original scale by “roofs and some walls torn off well-constructed houses; trains over-turned; most trees in forests uprooted; heavy cars lifted off ground and thrown.” While we may tend to think of storms in terms of wind speed, the Fujita Scale, and its update, the Enhanced Fujita Scale, is still an estimate, and not a measurement, of wind speed, based on the observable effects of the wind, and not the other way around. It is the accounting of the damage, and not the damager, that forms the basis of the scale.

[…]

Professor Fujita’s work came at a time when great leaps in technology had become available for the observation and measurement of ordinary human life and the phenomena around us. Advances in satellite photography, radar observations, and airflight technology and instrumentation, had made the calculation of standardized measurements on a broad scale easier than had been previously imaginable. But consider this: It was not a radar map or super-anemometer that formed the idea of an EF-3. It was not the power of technological measurement and calculation alone that gave order and understanding to this aspect of our world, thereby sparing thousands of lives. It was the very human powers of a man’s well-trained mind and imagination.

As one of Professor Fujita’s colleagues explained after his death in 1998, “He had a way to beautifully organize observations that would speak the truth of the phenomenon he was studying.”

And that is perhaps the most human way of measuring things.

Hearth & Field interview:*

H&F: … What are some practical things someone can do to make life lovelier?

Mrs. Elliott: A great place to start is with practical kindness — small kindnesses to your home, yourself, your family members, your community.

Because we all have things to do in life. You’ve got to do the dishes. You’ve got to do laundry. You’ve got to go to work. There’s no escape from these things, and there’s not supposed to be.

But maybe there is some little kindness you can do to make that work more beautiful in your life and the lives of others, to make things less utilitarian and highlight the reality that they are blessings. For example, maybe you don’t love your job at the moment, but you can still take the time to pack yourself a nice lunch so that you have something to look forward to at work. Grow a few of the ingredients or get them from the farmer’s market; introduce yourself to the farmer, and maybe some weekend drive out to his farm and get some milk. Or buy yourself a quarter of beef and a chest freezer and just enjoy that you have that really good meat waiting for you.

Now all of a sudden your normal work day has something in it to look forward to. You’ve been kind to yourself in that way.

Or at home, you can take the time to warm your mug for your coffee. And to sit still just for a minute in the morning as you wake up. Or you can change the sheets on the bed more often, or take steps to make sure that when you get out of the shower, you always have a clean, dry towel waiting for you. Or you can put your dish soap in a pretty pitcher and make an effort to notice how nice it is to pour the soap out onto a brand new sponge. Homemaking is full of opportunities for such small kindnesses to home, self, and family.

* “Shaye and Stuart Elliott live on a small homestead in Northern Central Washington, where, among other things, they run a cooking community and the “Homemaker Chic” podcast and direct their children’s homeschooling co-op. We recently sat down with the Elliotts to ask them about thrift, beauty, and provision in home life. What, we wondered, can families do to help themselves live a rich and beautiful life within the limits of their particular circumstances?”

Addition: See this post from Bethany H. on collecting matchbooks to replace bland clicky lighters.

Something I’ve been thinking about, wanting to say more about, but setting aside for now.

James Davison Hunter (2010):

Most people assume that the state is subsumed by democracy; that it is the means by which democratic governance occurs. Yet for the better part of the last century, many of the most insightful political and social theorists—including Max Weber, Lewis Mumford, Robert Michels, Michel Crozier, Reinhard Bendix, and Jacques Ellul— have insisted that there is an important distinction between the two, that they are decoupled in important ways and, most importantly, the relationship between them is at odds.

… The state is a massive, relatively autonomous bureaucratic organization whose purpose is to administer innumerable discrete tasks that make the regime function. Decisions made are filtered through nu-merous, often-unrelated bureaus staffed by professionals who have their own autonomous (and nondemocratic) decision-making authority. The tasks the state undertakes may be influenced by ideals or values provided by the political class, but those tasks do not embody those ideals. Rather, the tasks that define the actions of the state are administrative in nature and the highest aim is always efficiency.

The importance of specialists in politics is not restricted to governance but it extends into the core rituals and practices of democratic processes—not least of which is the challenge of getting elected. Here too political experts are involved at every level shaping the terms by which candidates present themselves, the positions they take on issues, and so on.

There are two critical implications of this situation. The first is that the state is not subject to electoral will. What this means is that political participation—both for politicians and citizens—is less about the expression of their sovereignty over the state than it is a surrender of their will to various political experts and technicians and the rules they have established. As Jacques Ellul noted long ago, that submission may be accompanied by great devotion to the cause, great prestige from being part of a group, and a great mystique surrounding the personalities who lead, but these are mainly “bromides for the conscience” that distract one from the reality of how much authenticity and freedom of judgment one has actually lost in the bargain. He undoubtedly overstates the case, as he often did, but the contention is more correct than not. In the end, popular sovereignty means less than we might hope. In this light, democracy is led by the bureaucratic necessities of the state arguably even more than it leads and directs the state.

Jacques Ellul (1967):

Eventually, any democratic administration inevitably rediscovers the idea of administrative decentralization. Of course such “local freedoms” are desirable; in fact, local autonomy is essential. But, first of all, there is very little likelihood of true decentralization taking place; it runs counter to the entire course of our society, and there is not the slightest indication of a reversal in that respect. Above all, such decentralization could take effect only in local communities and departments. But these are only a secondary aspect of an administration. The great administrative forces such as finances, police, propaganda, and the administration of science and technology, cannot be truly decentralized. They demand a carefully worked-out national organization, not diverse centers free to make autonomous decisions. An economic plan can include the establishment of decentralized organs, but it does so only within a perfectly centralized framework. One cannot see, therefore, how there can be true decentralization if a local organ, except for certain details and relatively unimportant technical means, is held to do and execute what has been decided beforehand. Therefore the term “popular administration” or “democratic administration” is nothing but a hollow formula with only a purely emotional content.

The epigraph Ellul chose for that book, Political Illusions:

The people will fancy an appearance of freedom; illusion will be their native land.

— Saint-Just

Dr. Dixie Dillon Lane:

I’ve observed over the years that it’s at this point — at the failure of imagination — that stereotypes so often set in. When we don’t understand something, we want to place it in a very well-defined box outside of which we ourselves can clearly stand. Hence the reflexive impulse for a child who goes to school to treat homeschooling as weird! He has no experience of it, so it freaks him out a little bit. By presuming it is weird (and ineffective), he can feel more confident in his own choices. It’s unrelated to whether or not homeschooling actually is or is not weird (or ineffective).

When we look at the history of homeschooling since 1950, however, and do research into homeschoolers’ motivations over time and the historical events that created the conditions for homeschooling to grow, our perspective changes. Skipping School argues that homeschooling was weird in the twentieth century in one sense, because it was very rare and was practiced mainly by people who were also countercultural in other unusual ways. It was a radical thing to do. But it was also not weird in that it was actually a very American response to shared national problems, one that was connected to very longterm American beliefs in parental influence and local authority in education.

And that’s part of why it grew; on some level, it makes sense to Americans that parents should be able to teach their own children. And today, when millions of American children are homeschooled, it’s really not weird at all; it’s a minor educational norm. Because it’s not just radicals who do it: all kinds of Americans homeschool, and for all kinds of reasons. Even though it’s still a minority practice, it has become relatively normal, kind of like going to Catholic school or Montessori school.

[…]

It’s funny, people say children need to go to school in order to learn independence, for example, or how to get along with others. But homeschooled students also often have the time and resources to engage with their communities with a lot more variety and independence than insitutional-school students do. This is not to say that school students don’t do this, just that it’s actually a feature of homeschooling that you can really work on teaching your youngsters how to interact with their neighbors. And there’s a lot of positive feedback from adults, especially older adults — they love it when young people offer to rake their leaves or mow their lawns or have a lemonade stand, for example, and homeschoolers have time and opportunity for this. Lots of people are just very happy to see kids out doing good things. And homeschoolers also play a huge part in supporting local libraries and other nonprofits; they really do a lot for the community.

What they don’t do is send kids to the local schools, and that can create tensions. But schools and homeschools don’t have to be enemies; we have shared goals, after all, or we ought to.

I will say that you do have to be more intentional about getting out and doing things in the community as a homeschooler, I think. Homeschooling moms can sometimes feel isolated, and their children can, too. There isn’t that automatic community that school or a workplace can provide. But it’s out there, if you go looking for it.

… [And] sometimes we forget that the vast majority of the decisions we make for our families are prudential. They’re about the application of principles to our particular context. I like to say that homeschooling is a practice, not a virtue; and so parents need to discern about it, not do it out of a sense of social pressure or ideology. It’s actually really common, too, for homeschooling families to discern year by year or child by child, and sometimes do one thing, and sometimes another. I have a lot of friends who have some kids in school, and some at home, or who do some other combination of things across time. That’s okay! And in fact, it can be very wise, if that’s what best serves your family. Homeschooling does not have to be inflexible.

Also, a great line from her grad school friend: If you’re only satisfied with ideal sources, you’ll never find any sources at all.

See also this wonderful quote from Dr. Lane.

Lars Mytting:

Many people feel that a living fire gives a rich experience. We are drawn to the fire, just as we once gathered around the flames in former times. For many there is a qualitative difference in the heat supplied by a radiator and that provided by a woodburning stove. A stove can glow with heat. Your feet won’t get warm when you turn on the inverter, and a radiator has to be on for quite some time before it will drive the chill from a cold house. Electric radiators seldom deliver more than two thousand watts, whereas even a small woodstove is easily able to generate six thousand watts, and many stoves as much as fourteen thousand watts. Scientifically speaking, there is no measurable difference between the heat generated by electricity and that produced by combustion, but the body reacts in a different way to the more intense heat from the stove, not least because modern fireplaces with glass doors radiate heat. An ordinary electric radiator or heat pump warms only the air in the room, but flames and glowing embers release electromagnetic, infrared radiation that has much the same characteristics as sunlight. Warming occurs in the skin and the body as the radiation arrives, with an immediacy and an intensity that bring a feeling of well-being and security. The indoor climate is also slightly changed. The consumption of oxygen encourages a degree of air circulation, and the stove absorbs a quantity of dust. These factors, combined with the smell of wood and a little woodsmoke, and the sight of the ever-changing play of flames, connect us with the primordial magic of the fireplace.

Something else to consider is the way the woodburning stove brings people into a very direct relationship with the weather. You are your own thermostat, you are the connecting link between the subzero temperatures outside and the relative warmth within. When you heat with wood you have to go out to the woodpile, come back in again, and start your fight against the cold. It’s bitter, and it bites, but you can do something about it. In this one small but vital arena you are in touch with the bare necessities of life, and in that moment you know the same deep sense of satisfaction that the cave dweller knew.

It may also be the case that we have become modern enough to look back and appreciate things that the generation before us did not value. Things go around. With the advent of kitchenware made out of hard plastic, the wooden bowls and utensils were consigned to the flames (those that survived are now sold everywhere as “rustic antiques”), and people were happy to see them go up in smoke. At last they were rid of that heavy, crude rubbish that was impossible to clean properly. They probably felt pretty much as we do today when we finally get rid of a sluggish old computer. The generation before ours covered the oak floors with linoleum and hid the intricate beauties of the Swiss chalet-style houses behind sheets of plywood. For us, their time has come again.

Yet heating with wood is not a nostalgic gesture on the part of the Scandinavians. It is both a source of energy and a deeply rooted part of our culture. The way a person cuts and stacks wood can tell you a great deal about him, and the woodpiles you see round about in the countryside are a reminder that wood is the connection between the forest and the home. It’s a modern and practical form of the old Romantic nationalism, as much a part of the soul of our countries as cross-country skiing, mediocre local newspapers, and elk hunting. […]

Henry David Thoreau is frequently quoted on the subject of our relationship to wood. In 1845 Thoreau went to live in the forest because life in modern American society had become too hectic for him (that’s right, in 1845). In Walden he wrote: “It is remarkable what a value is still put upon wood even in this age and in this new country, a value more permanent and universal than that of gold. After all our discoveries and inventions no man will go by a pile of wood. It is as precious to us as it was to our Saxon and Norman ancestors.”

Cf. Jeremy Abel on the participatory act lighting, using, and enjoying a fire.

(I see now that I’ve quoted some of this before in a post appropriately titled “woodstove ethics,” and included this later quote from Mytting: “…wood is [not merely] a source of energy; it is … an extremely adaptable form of energy. It can be shared with your neighbor, it doesn’t leak, it doesn’t need cable, a match will light it, it can be stored for year after year, and even inferior-quality wood will still do the job for you. There is peculiar security in the fact that this is energy in solid and tactile form. You can carry it into your house and know that the weight of what you are carrying represents exactly the amount of heat you will be getting.”)

Mr. Hadden Turner:

There are reasons that supermarket apples taste so barren in comparison. Our national supermarket chains are antithetical to local food. They stock and sell the products of the global food system, which have been adapted not to suit local climates, local soils, and local culinary preferences, but the needs and wants of the system: transportability, perfect appearance, standardization, and efficiency. Taste is subordinate to these industrial qualities, as too is nutritional value. Hence when we, the consumers, bite into a supermarket apple, we are left with a weak and watery taste in our mouths rather than the rich and juicy flavors our forefathers experienced.

In short, the global corporations that produce and sell supermarket foods are so powerful, profitable, and popular that local heirloom foods  scarcely stand a chance within that system. Apples, like tomatoes and cheeses and almost every other kind of local food, are neglected and outcompeted, with tragic results. Every year, many acres of traditional orchards are grubbed up as their owners succumb to the financial pressures of the modern food system, and their local varieties become scarce or lost altogether. With each variety that is lost, a unique taste becomes extinct, never to be enjoyed again.

The solutions offered are not at all surprising: grow more local food in your backyard if and when you can, and buy from small, local farms and businesses if and when you can.

Of course, few of us can afford to shop exclusively at the local farmers market or farm shop, and the last thing I want to do is to burden the conscience of anyone living paycheck to paycheck.  No one should feel guilty for not buying organic or local, when doing so would make it impossible to feed himself and his family.

I am convinced, however, that many more of us could afford to consume in a more local and ethical manner if we sat down and thought about it. We don’t realize how little we spend on food as citizens of western nations and how anomalous this state of affairs is in the course of human history. If we made other budgetary sacrifices — fewer consumer goods, fewer ultra-processed foods, fewer streaming subscriptions — and instead bought more local good food, we would be doing our local places good at the same time as doing good to our bodies. Which, when you  think about it, is not that much of a sacrifice after all.

Moreover, for those of us who are able to regularly and consistently shop local, who can afford to buy what is delicious and of superior quality: we ought not to enjoy these goods by ourselves. All of us are members of local communities, whether big or small. Thus, there exists ample opportunity for us to share this goodness convivially around the table with others. What better feast to offer your neighbors and friends than a table laden with local delicacies and local produce, all rich with flavor and quality, and prepared with love? We are feasting to the health of our place, the health of our communities, and the health of our bodies. I can think of few things more delightful than this — especially when there is an apple crumble for dessert.

Meghan and I are always looking for ways to improve, but it’s nice to affirm that we’re basically doing a lot of what we can right now. Not much of the growing — a cherry tomato plant for spur-of-the-moment plunder is about it — but the insistent and self-limiting act of buying from small, local farms and businesses. I can confirm the obvious: that it’s much more expensive; but, prices being what they are, it’s not as much more as you’d think, and sometimes actually cheaper. And that self-limiting part is important; it’s good for your purse, your health, and your soul — and beyond:

When we find ways to preserve and value (and enjoy) local foods, the truth is that the fruit we gather comes in many forms beyond plums and meat and apples. Many ways of supporting local food also create neighborly ties and foster goodwill and gathering spaces for a local community. These are the things that help not just local economies, but local cultures thrive. We share greater conviviality, learn more about each other’s backgrounds and struggles, and put our time and money where our mouths are, showing that we truly value the landscape and the people around us.

“Yes” by Mr. Paul J. Pastor:

Were I a molecule, I’d make my home
Within the vast halls of a solid stone,
Pass through magnetic fields, ascend my throne
And rule the echoes, permanent, alone,

And if I were a particle of light,
I’d sear my burrow through the velvet night,
With perfect elegance, prismatic might,
And skewer darkness. Such would be my right,

But I am merely human. Sinew. Skin.
Too large to hide—instead I’m hid within.
A little righteousness. A little sin.
One little word that flutters out and in.

Within hours of the truce ending, Russian glide bombs struck a Ukrainian school building in Komyshuvakha, a village in the region next to Kherson, seemingly timed to coincide with a weekly aid distribution there. It killed at least 43 people, with 30 still unaccounted for.