The shape and dynamics of a converging drainage feels deeply metaphorical for me; I try applying it to virtually everything. In Seeing Nature, I write about the invisible power rain contains to raise the surface of the earth if the rain can sink into the soil. And how, if the rain runs off instead, this power becomes the power to carry the soil away to the ocean.
If the land can absorb the rain, the invisible power will be expressed in different ways in different places. The invisible power will bring forth grass on the ridges, willows along the streams, and great riparian forests along the rivers. Each expression is appropriate to that particular place within the watershed.
I found myself contemplating a cultural analogy as I listened to our local symphony. Some people demeaningly compare our symphony with one of the great metropolitan symphonies. That is like demeaningly comparing the grass on the ridge to the great valley oaks along the river floodplain. Just as water converges into rivers, so too does cultural capital converge upon cities. It is natural that the greatest symphonies in the world occur in the large cities. They have a larger population to draw upon and have a great enough concentration of wealth to hire the best conductors that attract great musicians and fund them to practice many hours a week. So if one wants to hear the best performances in the world, one should go to a metropolitan symphony or buy one of their CDs.
The Redding Symphony won’t sound as good as the New York Philharmonic. And if one comes to our local symphony ready to critique them against the sound of the very best in the world, then one could have an active but not spiritually uplifting evening. And one would miss the real point of performances. The invisible power that expresses itself in great orchestras in the large cities expresses itself differently high in the drainages of neighborhoods and smaller towns. The invisible cultural power is that of sharing a performance. Part of the magic lies in the presence of the audience helping focus and inspire performers (both throughout the rehearsals and the show itself) to achieve more than they otherwise could. The other part of the magic lies in the audience being in the presence of performers reaching beyond themselves. This is true for a church choir or a school play or my daughters dancing for us in our living room. The invisible power lies in the relationship between the performers and the audience; a time of sharing our ability to nourish one another’s upward spirals.
To come to such a performance and experience it as a deficient imitation of a great orchestra is a form of cultural soil erosion. It removes one from the active participation in the performance. The performers can feel this pulling back which can lead them in turn to pull back and a downward spiral begins. I think about this because I often hear people around me apologize about living in Redding. Some people have a limp about living here, an assumption that anyone who had a free choice would be living in the Bay Area where there is so much more to “do” or at least to buy.
Just recently I have begun speaking up whenever I hear such talk. This “limp” frustrates me because I’ve seen it drain millions of dollars from our local economy over the last few years. The museum I work for is part of a collaboration that is trying to create a “world-class” museum centered on the rivers and forests of Northern California. The local agency people know what the focus of the museum should be. The fishery people say, “A river is an incredible dynamic system, from the headwaters to the ocean.” The foresters say, “A forest is an incredible, dynamic system.” Teach people about systems, their beauty, wonder, and complexity. But the people in charge don’t have faith in this local knowledge so they have wasted millions bringing in outside, nationally-recognized, urban exhibit designers who design standard exhibits that have none of the song of this place.
Frustration with this is one of the reasons I will be resigning my job in June. I would have resigned earlier but I had a moral obligation to successfully complete a 5-year grant which I had obtained for the museum. Anyway, the museum and I are coming to a fork in the road. They are going the path of merging into a very hierarchical, top-heavy organization with a vague sense of purpose and I am going the path of ….
I don’t know what will follow but I have absolute certainty that leaving the job is the right thing to do. Sometimes one has to stop what one is doing before one knows what one will start. I am reminded of my hitchhiking, birdwatching days after college. Each winter I would visit home and help Dad with the business but come March it was time to head south to the desert to pick up the bird migration north to Alaska. The days before I left, I would have an attack of “Why don’t I just stay a little longer here where it is safe and comfortable. Why don’t I wait until next week?” It was scary to not have any idea where I would be spending the next night. And it felt so uncomfortable walking up to my first hitchhiking vigil of the year and sticking out my thumb. But a week later, after meeting many neat people, I would be sitting by some desert spring or hiking on some new trail and everything would be all right.
I have a similar feeling about the impending future. It is scarier this time because I’m not hitchhiking alone. I have two daughters depending on their Daddy and we don’t have a lot of financial reserves. Their daddy will try teaching them about the rewards of following a lifepath with heart. Part of that path will involve Chrysalis in some form but part is wide open.
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