Author: Stephen Reno

We all know the old koan: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? The question is said to be an exercise in perception and observation.

My friend Chris is no tree, but there is a certain parallel between him and the timeless question. You see, he is a 39-year veteran high school teacher in a rural and very economically distressed part of northern New England and he is retiring. Considering the demographic of the teaching profession these days, Chris could be described as part of the old growth, as the number of colleagues whose time teaching goes back to the early 1980s is increasingly rare.

Like a long-standing tree, Chris has been a stalwart at his school and in his community. Since his first day in the classroom, he has dressed in a suit and tie. That is something of a rarity in schools today. When asked why he has done so, he offers modestly, “It sets an example to the students that what we are doing together is important business and that I should dress to show that.”

While formal in dress, Chris is compassionate and deeply solicitous for his students. The door to his classroom has a sign: “You are most welcome here” in German and French, the languages he teaches. As a result, his classroom is a sanctuary, especially for those who sometimes just need a break from the tensions and challenges of high school daily life. He has been a counselor, cheerleader, and ever faithful confidant for nearly three generations of students.

Knowing how important dress and appearance are, not only for social events, job interviews or just self-esteem, each year Chris sets up a rack of his suits, shirts and ties in his classroom so that students can choose items that their modest financial resources could not stretch to buy.

Annually, Chris has taken 20 to 30 of the students at his school on a two-week study trip to Germany and France. For virtually all of them, this is their first trip abroad, and for some, even out of state. He has photographs of students’ faces as they get their first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame. For many, the trip under his tutelage is the spark that generates a career trajectory, whether to travel or, for some, to follow Chris in his profession.

Alums of his classes are now published writers, teachers, entrepreneurs and civic leaders. News of his impending retirement has triggered a flood of emails and calls.

Yes, when a great tree falls, there should be a sound, a very loud and appreciative one. Thank you, Chris.

Even as I write these words, some professor at some college is planning a course for the fall semester that will deal with the pandemic. Virtually every academic discipline will have some segment or unit that addresses what we have been (and still are) going through. Literature classes will have their own version of A Journal of a Plague Year. From Art to Zoology, scholars will draw upon the events of these days to develop retrospectives on how the pandemic came about, how it has been handled, who it’s affected, what it’s cost, the statistics of infection, hospitalizations, recoveries and deaths, social, racial and economic injustices, political dimensions, military strategic implications, and economic, psychological and cultural impacts. The list is seemingly endless.

Whatever the courses or programs the professionals develop to parse the significance of this almost unprecedented event, each of us will have our own story. Perhaps, if any of us lives to be old enough, our grandchildren or even great-grandchildren may someday ask, “What was it like back then?” How will we answer? That question occupies me very much these days as I find my longtime practice of daily journal writing has nearly ground to a stop. Quite simply, I do not know what to write now, especially as I imagine one of my descendants someday thumbing through the stack of leather-bound books I’ve been filling up since the early ’60s, noting all my adventures and impressions, and then coming to a blank for most of this year. Will she or he wonder why the hiatus?

In truth, the isolation imposed by the pandemic has meant many of us have been alone with our own thoughts this last year more than ever before. While Zoom and FaceTime can close the loneliness gap somewhat, each of those is a really a kind of planned encounter, an “appointment.” What has been missing is that range of unexpected stimulation that comes from simply being in the presence of other people, whether at the workplace, grocery shopping, dining, or just being out and about. Social distancing has truly made us socially distant and as a result, as David Brooks recently noted, our “extroversion muscles have atrophied while [our] introversion muscles are bulging.”

Early on in the pandemic, there were signs everywhere proclaiming, “Together, we’ll get through this.” We are getting through it. My hope is that now, if we can do it safely, getting vaccinated and wearing our masks as appropriate, we can get back together. Perhaps my journaling will pick up again.

Most folks probably scanned past the news item that recently reported the imminent closure of the 450-year-old “Lamb and Flag” pub in Oxford, England. This venerable gathering place on St. Giles Street has served clients local and visiting, famous and ordinary, and even the likes of me. The pub not only held fond memories for me, it also indirectly affected the upbringing of my children.
In the early ’70s, while doing research for my doctoral dissertation in the Bodleian Library nearby, I would repair to the Lamb and Flag at the end of the day for well-earned refreshment. My favorite seat in the pub — if it were available — was at an ancient and worn oak round table situated in a corner and flanked by two tall bookcases.
On my first visit to the pub, that space caught my eye because it was occupied that afternoon by an Oxford don and three of his students. I sat close enough to them to engage in my favorite pastime, namely eavesdropping. They were discussing a poem and each had their book open in front of them along with a pint of bitter. Behind them, the two tall bookcases were filled with Oxford University Press reference books. From time to time, I noticed, one of the group would turn around, take down a book, and look up a reference. I was fascinated by the ritual, not to mention the novelty that a pub would keep so many shelves of reference books. Thereafter, I sat at that table every time I could and I too would turn and look something up from one of the books.
Twenty-five years later, my family and I moved into a house in southern Oregon. A feature of the house that attracted me immediately was a little corner dining nook that had two tall bookshelves behind it. Ah ha! I decided to fill it with all of my reference books, from the Concise Oxford Dictionary of Music, Dictionary of Ancient History and Fowler’s Modern English Usage, to The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Slang. There were tomes of history, books on world religions, collections of poetry and language dictionaries.
Before long, our family had its own ritual. We had many of our meals together at that round table in the nook. Whenever a question of fact or definition arose, someone would say, “Let’s look it up” and would reach around to find the appropriate reference work. Tedious? Yes, I am sure our son and daughter felt that way many times. Nevertheless, we sorted out a number of homework assignments, not to mention settled disputes.
So, yes. I shall miss the Lamb and Flag, almost as much as I miss those family gatherings around our own reference table. With Google readily available now, we don’t need those any more. Do we?

At a religious ceremony last weekend, in the beautiful woods of New Hampshire, the priest counseled us to come together across our differences and to pray for one another. While that sentiment seemed reasonable among the small group of relatively like-minded folks gathered in the snow that morning, I realized it was directed ultimately not just to us but beyond, even nationally across our country. The challenge of that admonition was for each of us to look above what divides us to what we have in common. But in all honesty, that’s hard to do when so much of what has happened recently seems inevitably to drive us even further apart.

Tonight, as I write this, while watching the memorial service for the victims of the pandemic who were grieved at the National Mall, and especially when the 400 lights came on along the Reflecting Pool, each one casting a reflection in the shimmering water, as if to ripple out through each glistening reflection the individuality of every single tragically lost life from families across our nation, it became so very clear that that truly is what we have in common.

For regardless of partisan identity, as human beings we all grieve the loss of our loved ones.

In that other, almost religious service this evening, we were counseled, “To heal, we must remember. It’s hard sometimes to remember.” Yes, it is hard to look beyond the tragedy of our personal losses: the deaths of those who didn’t die with their families at their side, who died in the compassionate care of nurses and doctors who maybe knew them only by name and brief acquaintance, but who gave them tender ministration in our place. Yes, to hold that sorrow and look around to so many others with whom we share loss and to remember they, too, are our brothers and sisters.

Ancient wisdom tells us that “Nothing is as strong as a heart that has been broken.” Might this nation of broken hearts look up through our pain and remember who we are?

Rituals are things we do as a community at times of profound change and deep feeling. They can bind us up as individuals, but they can also urge us as fellow human beings to lift one another up. Truly, this I believe.

For more years than I can remember, at this time of year someone within earshot would say, “Christmas carols so soon? It’s the day after Thanksgiving and the carols have started. Far too early.” That always struck me as a little Grinch-like. This year, however, no one has uttered those words. Instead, there seems an almost universal haste to bring on the holiday season.

Our favorite nursery and hardware store reports their stock of wreaths, garlands, lights, candles and festive decorations is nearly sold out. Drive through neighborhoods after dark and more houses than usual seem festooned. And while many of us are staying away from retail shops for health and safety reasons, seasonal shopping is at a brisk pace online as witnessed by the UPS, FedEx, Prime and USPS trucks out and about.

We should not be surprised at ourselves this year. As we enter the 10th month of mask-wearing, social distancing and cabin hibernation, we are looking for the comfort of those seasonal traditions that were commonplace before the pandemic.

Across cultures worldwide, regardless of their religions, rituals bring meaning to ordinary time and action. They lift us out of the commonplace by changing what we see, hear, taste and smell. In short, rituals of whatever kind link the present with the past, whether it is our tribe’s, family’s, community’s or our very own. And we seem to need them most when the world around us seems dark and possibly even dangerous.

For centuries and in many cultures the winter solstice (which occurs this month) has been seen as a significant time and has been marked by festivals and rituals. It marked the symbolic death and rebirth of the sun. The seasonal significance of the winter solstice is in the reversal of the gradual lengthening of nights and shortening of days.

With the pandemic death toll in our country now approaching 280,000, we are truly in a very dark time. And while the promise of effective vaccines offers a light ahead, as does the solstice promise the return of the sun, we seek some comfort in rituals of this season and trust they will bolster our hope for better times.

So this year, whatever festival we observe, we are likely to do so more thoughtfully and with greater intensity. As much as we may trust in science, we also take comfort in our rituals.

In a curious way, the pandemic has closed us into our houses and into ourselves at precisely the time when there is so much at stake in our state, our country and the world that would call forth our efforts and actions. For many this brings great worry and frustration. There are so many needs, so many competing causes, and so many voices, often strident, angry and competing. Many friends say they have quit following the news or have severely curtailed their watching, listening or social media engagement, looking instead for some peace and quiet to find meaning in all this.

As a retired professor of comparative religion I am familiar with many forms of retreat, reflection and inward turning. But I know, too, that inward growth, nurtured in quietude and silence, can give purpose and energy to outward action. My daily morning meditation takes its start from some reading chosen from my library. Today’s seemed especially timely. It is “A Prayer for the world” by Rabbi Harold S. Kushner. I share it here so that it might serve others as it has me.

A Prayer for the World

Let the rain come and wash away
the ancient grudges, the bitter hatreds
held and nourished over generations.
Let the rain wash away the memory
of the hurt, the neglect.
Then let the sun come out and
fill the sky with rainbows.
Let the warmth of the sun heal us
wherever we are broken.
Let it burn away the fog so that
we can see each other clearly.
So that we can see beyond labels,
beyond accents, gender, or skin color.
Let the warmth and brightness
of the sun melt our selfishness
so that we can share the joys and
feel the sorrows of our neighbors.
And let the light of the sun
be so strong that we will see all
people as our neighbors.
Let the earth, nourished by rain,
bring forth flowers
to surround us with beauty.
And let the mountains teach our hearts
to reach upward to heaven.
Amen

You can contact Steve Reno at [email protected].