Work
The Work of a Poetic Life
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When we contemplated “Work” as a theme last fall, it meant something different than it does today. Perhaps this word now feels threatening, bitter, frustrating, or daunting. What is the work to be done in this moment when so much has halted and so much is gone?
For some, work now means putting their lives at risk just by showing up every day. Others have suddenly found themselves unemployed. Parents are juggling multiple jobs as they work and teach their kids at home. The kids in turn must find new ways to entertain themselves. For everyone ordered to shelter in place, staying home has become our work. And in a city that does not rest, this may feel like a very hard job indeed.
In the midst of this global pandemic, what place does being creative and practicing art have? As we’re evaluating what’s essential and non-essential, where does art fall?
When we named our community Vita Poetica, or “poetic life,” we meant for poetic to be understood in the widest sense. Our desire was to see the redemptive possibility in all things. In many languages of the world, including English, the word for poetry originates from the Greek poieó, meaning “to make.” A poet, in the original sense, is a maker of things, and a poem is the thing that is made. When we think of a poetic life, we envision one that makes meaning and beauty wherever we are and with whatever we are given. Perhaps this is the very time to make and to share. As artists everywhere offer up their works to the public, we see that it is songs, stories, and images that can tend to the world’s grieving heart right now.
So here, then, is a story for the tellers of story—that is, all of you:
In the children’s book Frederick by Leo Lionni, a family of field mice are busy gathering food for the winter. All except for a little mouse named Frederick, who seems to just sit and stare. When the other mice ask him why he doesn’t work, he replies, “‘I do work… I gather sun rays for the cold dark winter days… I gather colors… I gather words…’” Later, in the depths of winter, when all the food has been consumed, the mice remember Frederick, who begins to warm and comfort them with his images, colors, and words. “‘Frederick,’ they said, ‘you are a poet!’”
Over these few months, our community will have the opportunity to bring our own images, colors, and words to each other through a number of virtual events, including an afternoon of poetry sharing and a salon on this quarter’s theme. We’ll explore ways to document this historic time through written, audio, and visual forms, and we’ll host a creative writing workshop as an invitation to reengage with our creativity. At the end of the quarter, we’ll come together in spirit to share our work with each other through a virtual open mic.
It is our hope and prayer that these opportunities will warm and comfort all of us in this time of crisis and isolation.
— Julie Wan
Questions for Reflection:
1. In Hebrew, the word avodah simultaneously means “work, worship, and service.” It’s also been said that liturgy is “the work of the people” or, in the original Greek, a “public work” given by God to aid us in worshiping and engaging with God. As we are imprinted by the difficulty of this season of isolation, which has also coincided with Lent, perhaps it’s appropriate to consider that we ourselves are the work and that our living now is an act of worship. Is there redemptive possibility in ourselves as we help each other through this crisis? Have you witnessed or experienced some of this already?
2. Consider how work is described in Genesis both before and after the fall of humankind. In the garden of Eden, Adam is tasked with the job of tending the garden and naming the animals. After Adam and Eve eat the forbidden fruit and are banished from Eden, work turns into labor and toil. What might these observations suggest about the nature of work and about some of the understandings we now have of work?
3. Many of us navigate the tension between vocation and livelihood, between creative work and day job. Perhaps we are simultaneously the mouse who gathers colors and the mouse who gathers food. What does this tension look like for you, and what are some ways you’ve sought to hold that tension in your life?
4. Sabbath is a time to pause from work, but in setting apart that which is holy, we also partake in a different kind of work. How would you describe the work of sabbath, both as it was intended and also in our current circumstances? In what ways has this time of sabbath provided opportunity to attend to some of our creative or spiritual practices?
5. These days of quarantine have required us to work harder to meet some of our basic needs. Buying groceries has become a strategic mind game. Spending time with friends has required creative solutions. As supplies run out, we’ve had to become resourceful and self-reliant. But even as life has become less efficient, in what ways may it also have become more intentional and meaningful?
6. This pandemic has revealed for many the need for the work of grieving. What grieving may be needed in this moment? And what may comfort look like as we consider the promise of Jesus in Matthew 5:4—“blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”? How does the work of a poetic life relate to any grieving and/or comfort around us at this time?
