Honest John

Over the past three years plus, John Kent has delivered around 40 tons of wood for the Peace Fire. He fells and splits the tree by hand. Hard, honest work.

This morning he jumped out of his truck with a gift of gold in his hands. For me. Seven juicy apples.

“I just thought you might like these” he says, in the pure, simple generosity of people who work close to the earth.

Normally, I would take such an act of unsolicited kindness in stride and not give it too much attention other than just a moment of genuine gratitude. However, a recent visitor to Windgrove, who stayed five days, yet contributed next to nothing (work or food) and only seemed to take, made John’s offering that much more appreciated by me.

Windgrove gets a lot of people passing through. Most are welcome. The hardest to take seriously are those spiritual pilgrims who pride themselves on the years of zazen they have sat or the amount of yoga workshops completed; who lavish plenty of praise upon Windgrove, yet are seemingly unaware of the importance of a work or gift ethic.

For me, these people should stay in California. They buy the best clothing to wear when meditating, and I’m certain they burn the finest incense, but money spent on self or given without humility and respect is a false use of money.

Spiritual arrogance and pride is as rampant as material consumerism. The true pilgrim eschews both.

I’ll take a worker like John Kent any day over a “spiritual” warrior or born again shaman.

Here’s what Marge Piercy says:

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy