I know the panic of that wish to save
the vital knowledge of the old times, handed down,
for it is rising off the earth, fraying away
in the wind and the coming day.
As the machines come and the people go
the old names rise, chattering, and depart
That old man speaking you have heard
since your boyhood, since his prime, his voice
speaking in his own, by winter fires, in fields and woods,
in barns while rain beat on the roofs
and wind shook the girders. Stay and listen
until he dies or you die, for death
is in this, and grief is in it. Live here
as one who knows these things. Stay, if you live,
listen and answer. Listen to the next one
like him, if there is to be one. Be
the next one like him, if you must,
stay and wait. Tell your children. Tell them
to tell their children. As you depart
toward the coming light, turn back
and speak . . .
This poem "The Record" (and there is more to it) by Wendell Berry set me to thinking and feeling something within . . . for I know of that panic also. The panic of wanting to save the wisdom of the old times.
The forgotten ways. The ancient that may not become the future. The ones who speak of those things. Loving them. Preserving them. Guarding them. Passing them on. It seems very hard, so very hard.
The panic I feel is the panic of obscurity, the panic of becoming a relic, a remnant of belief in a dying way, and for now living as a spiritual exile, perhaps even a fool for that which is fading, rejected, scorned.
So I must stay, listen, answer if I can, speak if I may and even in the departing, turn back and speak. Even if they would have none of it.
Brian Rice
Leadership ConneXtions International
