The meaning of the word “activism” is as broad as there are issues to be “active” about. But activism can go too far, as Thomas Merton observed:
“There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence to which the idealist most easily succumbs: activism and overwork. The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of its innate violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of our activism neutralizes our work for peace. It destroys our own inner capacity for peace. It destroys the fruitfulness of our own work, because it kills the root of inner wisdom which makes work fruitful.”
The current political, physical, and emotional climate is undeniably overwhelming. There is much work to be done – too much, too urgently -, and a balance must be established in how we allocate our energies.
My own struggle with how I can best respond to the many issues of today has been best captured by the words of one of my heroes, Wendell Berry, in his response to a letter I wrote to him in 2010. I had inquired (without so much eloquence in prose as my letter’s recipient) about my competing needs: to protest, to march, to be politically and socially active, to bring myself to the fight . . . or to go inside myself, to pare down the intensity and reach of my activism and focus on a more local and qualitative presence, to move into a more sustainable – but more solitary – life. I wanted a simple answer, perhaps, because the question (as essential and existential as they come) seemed to demand such a dramatic choice between such polar life-ways.
Berry, in his predictably coherent response, questioned my assumption by pointing out that my struggle was self-inflicted; that my options were a false dichotomy, that I could – that I should – find my own way to balance “the good and necessary Work.”
“Compromises must be made,” he said, and choosing one shouldn’t mean the other is incompatible or mutually exclusive.
Today, (I think), I’ve found a bit of balance in the Work. The places into which my “activism” is given are always changing; an issue comes into the foreground, then recedes and – perhaps – returns again later, only to be received in a different light, by a slightly different “me.” These pursuits are grounded in staying open to their coming and going, in my willingness to allow their urgency to be activated on their own accord. Today, I call my state representative, and provide a safe place for a child to express her fears. Tomorrow, some quiet moments to sit with a book, or to write poetry (should it choose to emerge), or to walk my land and envision where the next fruit tree will take root. The most powerful activities can seem, at first glance, to be the least “activist” of all. A sequoia seed appears so seemingly and inconsequentially small but can, in time, grow into the most colossal of beings in the world.
Words are activism. They inspire – they breathe – intimacy into our world. Following the triple crown victory of American Pharaoh in 2015, my sorrow for such an industry could only be expressed in the activism of words:
—–
—Crown of Canines—
American Pharaoh, Triple Crown finish;
not victim, yet, to blinded cheers,
as the one curtained three hours before,
on the same dirt track with the same hopes,
like 186 downed in Cali alone last year,
or ten thousand eaten by dogs
in the same short time, far out of sight.
No nag was born to charge
on sticks bearing a thousand stallion pounds,
but the one man made
to pocket a thousand million dollars.
—–
And the seeming futility of our short lives, of the ripples we are capable of in even the smallest of moments, also came through me in the activism of words:
planting a young fruit tree
though tomorrow may be your last
bear fruit in digging
My activism is defined by my presence, in every precious moment, in this world: as a father and husband, as a psychotherapist, as an aspiring homesteader, gardener, and poet. My activism is in the warmth of the cutting and burning of firewood. My activism is in the warmth of compassionately listening and, if necessary, gently responding to the words and experiences of others – embodying the unique experiences of their own struggle. My activism is in every seemingly tiny action that my children bear witness to – imperfections and all.
Activism, for me, only works well when you are at peace with what you cannot do. Which is to say, activism mustn’t be so active that it becomes destructive.