Hopefully Devoted

The uniquely human trait of continuing to create in the face of hardship

Dear Reader,

In a dimly-lit church, somewhere in Northern Italy, on an afternoon in early autumn, nearly three years ago, I was profoundly moved. Not by God per se, but by the grandiosity of devotion expressed in the form of intricate tile work trodden by hundreds of years of worshippers and white-sneakered visitors, life-size and life-like sculptures, and ornate paintings telling stories across walls and ceilings, all masterfully created by generations of faithful humans. This was their life’s work. This was how they loved not only their God but their culture, their history, and their community. For most, these opulently decorated spaces of worship were unfinished in their lifetime, but nonetheless, despite the inevitability of death and in the throes of personal and societal unrest, beauty was made, seemingly unhurried and with the highest intention, for a purpose beyond the self.

Are we as humans delusional? Are our unwavering efforts to build, to birth, to plan, to dream, to beautify, and to find meaning amidst overwhelming devastation fruitless? Or are we innately creative beings cosmically programmed to create our own literal and metaphorical sanctuary in this harsh world? In other words, doesn’t our survival depend on our brave commitment to creation in the face of destruction?

This morning, from my old green chair that (in combination with a lap pillow) also serves as my writing desk, I’m observing my tender plant babies in the new garden beds enduring their initiation to the Kohala winds. *Cue up Pink Martini’s Hang On Little Tomato.* Two beds to start and more to come, each contains an increasingly more dense planting of herbs, veg, and flowering things. The aesthetic inspiration: a wild cottage garden. The practical inspiration: future-proofing. Gardening both for joy and the very real responsibility of self reliance. Edibles for the belly, flowers for the heart.

On a night last week while working my day (into night) job at the restaurant, as usual, we had a packed house — inside dining room and outdoor patio both fully occupied. Suddenly, much to our surprise, from down the mountain came the rain. Servers scrambled to bring their outdoor parties under cover, reseating them wherever they could. The dominoes fell from there and in their wake arose the invitation to keep come and carry on, especially with the few not-so-understanding new check-ins expressing their disappointment that they wouldn’t be getting the patio seat they’d requested with their reservation. Related perhaps to the occasional guest who asks us if we can control the sun? Sorry Sir, a mighty team we are but weather Gods we are not. The bright light that night, a multi-generational family of ten out together to celebrate an anniversary, now huddled at a much smaller but drier table under the eaves. When their server thanked them profusely for their understanding, apologizing for not having an open indoor table to accommodate their party, they warmly replied, “Oh, we’re fine. We are committed to having a good time.” Cheers to that.

In vulnerable honesty, the compounding evidence revealing the erosion of humanity breaks my heart daily. Reckoning with the reality that so many align with choices, ideologies, systems, and leaders that will sacrifice the wellbeing and, frankly, survival of so many for the sake of their own interests is disheartening, to say the least. And also, just as there have always been throughout time, the uprising of fortified communities gives me hope. People making their art and planting gardens and choosing to have babies and creating gathering spaces and writing from their hearts — both because of and in spite of it all — gives me hope.

It’s easier perhaps to let the wave of grief and anguish for the world swallow us under, numbed by our attachments to neutrality and unchecked consumption, but there’s something brave and beautiful about collective resistance, about choosing to live well as best we can despite it all — about turning over on our backs, faces to the sky, buoyed by our breath, linked together like otters, and going merrily, merrily down the stream.

A collection of words saved while scrolling that give me hope —