Nostalgia—A Riff
By Clay Hipp
what the lyricists know, that the philosophers don't
Snap the Whip, 1872 — Winslow Homer, American Painter
I have ambivalent feelings about that word—nostalgia. It can mean simply “wallowing in the past,” which is usually not a good thing. Pining for yesterday gets us nowhere. But when we live in memory for a while and extract the essential truths and the good, then we might just find a way to move forward—together, united.
So these days, when I am feeling betwixt and between about a word or a concept, I no longer consult the linguists and philosophers. Instead, I go sit under the “wisdom tree” and contemplate the words of poets and lyricists. They understand that I am not necessarily seeking answers, but a deeper understanding of life and its confounding dilemmas, offered by people of experience—people just like you and me.
Let's think nostalgic thoughts together.
More than once lately, a feeling of deep grief has almost brought me down—not personal grief exactly, but grief over our mutual loss of “The Way We Were.”
What were we?
Memories
Light the corners of my mind
Misty watercolor memories
Of the way we were
Scattered pictures
Of the smiles we left behind
Smiles we gave to one another
For the way we were
Can it be that it was all so simple then?
Or has time rewritten every line?
If we had the chance to do it all again
Tell me, would we? Could we?
— "The Way We Were." Music by Marvin Hamlisch, lyrics by Alan and Marilyn Bergman, 1973
Those words speak directly to the two sides of nostalgia: the tenderness of remembering and the danger of believing that everything was simpler then. Still, to that final question—would we, could we?—I offer a resounding “yes.”
I have the advantage over many of you. I was born in 1946, one year after my father returned from the war. I was among the very first "baby boomers." Things did seem so much simpler then. Consider what we had: the afterglow of helping the world defeat Hitler, the reopening of the economy, the promise to make everyone's lives better, soldiers getting college educations under the GI Bill. We were all "winners"; we were united (most of us). I know, of course, that the country I remember was not experienced in the same way by everyone. What seemed safe and full of promise to some of us was neither safe nor promising for others. Nostalgia must make room for that truth, or it becomes merely another way of rewriting every line. A famous general became our president, and we were told that the country would be kept “safe” from the growing Soviet communist threat.
Radio gave way to TV. We all watched the same shows and were thrilled by Elvis and the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday night, and by the wonderful world of Walt Disney. We built superhighways and reveled in our yearly anticipation of new car models. Athletics were still just games — high school, college, and the pros, with identifiable rosters, magical names, and stadiums in exotic cities. (Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays, and Mickey Mantle were names known by everyone; the Dodgers and the Yankees met in crosstown World Series.)
Perhaps what I miss is not the past itself, but the feeling that we once inhabited more of the same world. We knew many of the same stories, sang many of the same songs, and gathered—however imperfectly—around some of the same tables.
Those were the days, my friend. We thought they'd never end.
During the late 1970’s, the great songwriter Harry Chapin wrote:
Remember when the music
Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire
And as we sang the words it would set our minds on fire
For we believed in things, and so we’d sing
Remember when the music
Brought us all together to stand inside the rain
And as we joined our hands we’d meet in the refrain
For we had dreams to live, and we had hopes to give
Don’t you remember when the music
Was the best of what we dreamed of for our children’s time?
And as we sang we worked for we knew time was just a line
A gift we saved, a gift the future gave
Remember when the music
Brought the night across the valley as the day went down
And as we’d hum the melody we’d be safe inside the sound
And so we’d sleep, for we had dreams to keep”
I know if you have been with me on this site, you have heard this song before, but… it keeps me going.
On Friday night I offered a piece by the progressive rock band Kansas called "Song for America." It is long and beautiful and surprising — well worth your time. After praising the discovery of our "promised land" and telling the tale of the pioneers, sea to shining sea, it suddenly turns pensive, and the final verses mirror the possible world of today.
“Highways scar the mountainsides, buildings to the sky
People all around
Houses stand in endless rows, sea to shining sea
People all around
So we rule this land, and here we stand
Upon our paradise
Dreaming of a place, our weary race
Is ready to arise”
So we—you and I, and those who represent us—rule this land. Here we stand upon our paradise, yet still dream of another place from which our weary race might ARISE.
There is the paradox again. We have inherited abundance and beauty, yet remain restless, divided, and unable to fulfill the promise we continually make to ourselves. Perhaps nostalgia is useful only when it reminds us not merely of what was, but of what we once believed could be.
Still, we must place some hope in the dream—not the dream as we nostalgically remember it, perfect and pristine, but the unfinished dream as it might yet become.
“Remember when the music
Brought the night across the valley as the day went down
And as we’d hum the melody we’d be safe inside the sound
And so we’d sleep, for we had dreams to keep”
— Reprise from Harry Chapin’s “Remember When the Music”
Nostalgia alone looks backward. Hope takes what memory has preserved and carries it toward a place we have not yet reached. And so I leave you beneath the wisdom tree with one more song:
Somewhere over the rainbow way up high
In the land that I heard of once, once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true
Someday, I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me
Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true
If happy little blue birds fly above the rainbow
Why, oh, why can’t I?
— "Over the Rainbow." Sung by Judy Garland, Music by Harold Arlen, lyrics by E.Y. "Yip" Harburg, 1939.
Still, one must hope—not for the return of a past that was never as perfect as memory suggests, but for the fulfillment of a promise we have not yet kept.
Harry Chapin remembered a time when music brought us together, when we had “dreams to live” and “hopes to give.” Perhaps the music still can. Perhaps memory, when honestly held, can remind us not only of what has been lost, but of what remains worth recovering.
Nostalgia alone looks backward. Hope takes what memory has preserved and carries it toward a place we have not yet reached.
Somewhere over the rainbow, the song tells us, the dreams we dare to dream may yet come true.
Perhaps we cannot return to the way we were—and perhaps we should not wish to. But we can remember what was generous, hopeful, and life-giving, carry it forward, and widen the circle so that more of us may finally stand within it.
Why can’t we?
Canon in D
By Clay Hipp
Reflections on gratitude, mystery, and the strange gift of being seen
A Man Reading in a Garden, 1865, Honoré Daumier, French
Friday Morning, July 3, 2026
What does one say when rendered speechless and then brought to tears?
That is what happened, in more ways than one, on my birthday.
It all started the day before, on the 2nd. We went to breakfast at our favorite little neighborhood café. I got a phone call from my youngest son, who lives in Chile. In muffled tones, he let me know that he was in the hospital. A procedure would determine the reason for chest pains. He would let me know.
As we were leaving, Joanie received a message letting her know that her mother had been rushed to the ER and hospitalized. She was waiting for an MRI.
For the rest of the day, we waited for outcomes.
Fortunately, each turned out well, save for my son’s fully blocked artery, which was successfully cleaned out and stented. News like this does not land lightly. The words “successful” and “released from the hospital” are wonderful words, but they arrive only after other, more frightening words have wreaked their havoc on mind and soul.
Late that same afternoon, I received a terse e-mail ending a five-year relationship with a friend.
What a lead-up.
I hardly slept that evening and woke up groggy and disoriented. Coffee helped somewhat, and finally I was able to have a decent conversation with Saint Joan.
After a while, she led me into our small dining room for a surprise birthday gift. On my computer was a handwritten card directly from her. Along the wall, on a sideboard, were hundreds of photographs and much memorabilia from my eight decades.
After we had sampled them, she opened my computer to reveal a folder, hidden until that moment, full of e-mail messages. Quietly, behind the scenes, she had written to people from different corners of my life — family, old friends, former students, colleagues, companions from various chapters — asking them to send words, memories, stories, songs, whatever they wished to offer.
And they did.
One after another, the messages arrived, each from its own angle of affection and remembrance. They talked of diverse things: a classroom, a meal, a trip, a kindness, a conversation, a song, a phrase I had long forgotten. More than a few brought me to tears, Joanie as well, until we could read no more for the moment.
As I read and read, I quite often thought, “Who is this person they are writing about? I hope that I can become more like him over the next decades.”
Somehow he seemed made up.
It is grand, and also quite unsettling, to realize that people may have carried around some version of you that you yourself have never met. I am not being modest. This is how it felt. I kept thinking, “They do not really know who I am.”
But then another possibility began to work on me.
Perhaps they know something I do not.
Not the whole of me, of course (do we ever really know our full selves?). I think it is difficult because we live too close. We know our confusion, failures of nerve, impatience, selfishness; the unfinished work — the inner weather no one else can see. From the inside, our lives often feel partial, improvised, and unclear.
But in those moments, reading those beautiful, funny, heart-wrenching e-mails, I realized that people saw me from another angle.
They remember a sentence I’d forgotten. A class I barely recall. A meal. A concert we attended. An e-mail I wrote over class break. A conversation in a café. A book placed in their hands. A question asked at the right (or wrong) time. A kindness given when needed. A moment that, to me, was just a moment passing, but to them, somehow, became a part of who I was.
What a strange gift.
Beautiful, but strange.
It is one thing to live your life. It is another thing to have it sung back to you.
I will say this: it was the perfect antidote for what happened on the 2nd. The contrast between the two days, and the emotional tide that came in and was now going out, left me spent — awash in gratitude and emotions I did not have words for.
Right now, I am listening to Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
Yes, that one. The wedding one. It became so popular in the ’70s, and played and covered so often, that for many it became trite and actually derided by some. A shame.
If one reads about its structure, one might be fascinated to learn that the strings and continuo play repeating harmonies over a basso continuo that repeats over and over throughout the calming and almost mesmerizing composition.
Underneath all those soaring strings, there is a bass line. Eight notes. It simply repeats — over and over, from the first measure to the last, never changing, never hurrying. Everything beautiful in the piece happens on top of something that holds.
Maybe a life is a little like that.
There is some line underneath us, some pattern of character or habit or hope, some way of returning to the world, that repeats so faithfully we may hardly notice it ourselves. We get up, make coffee, read, cook, teach, listen imperfectly, ask our questions, fail one another, repair what we can, and begin again.
The bass line is not dramatic. It does not say, “Look at me.” It simply holds.
But then others enter.
They bring their own melodies. They remember the phrase, the meal, the class, the song, the invitation, the argument, the book, the joke, the hours together at the table. They take something from that steady line and carry it forward in a way one could never have predicted.
And suddenly, on one’s eightieth birthday, one hears not only the bass line one has been trying, imperfectly, to keep, but all the music that has risen from it in other people.
No wonder it was overwhelming.
Martin Buber wrote about the difference between I-It and I-Thou — between treating another person as an object to be measured, used, or categorized, and meeting that person as a living presence. I have always loved that distinction, though I cannot claim always to have lived up to it.
But what these letters gave me was not praise, exactly. Praise can be dismissed. Compliments can be batted away by any reasonably skilled old crank.
This was harder.
These letters were acts of recognition. They were people saying, in one way or another: you met me. You saw me. You gave me something, and I carried it forward.
That is not easy to take in.
It may be easier to believe the harsh word than the generous one. Easier to believe the broken relationship than the hundreds of remembered kindnesses. Easier to believe one’s private accounting than the testimony of those who have stood nearby.
Perhaps this is why we need others. Not to inflate us, but to show us what we cannot see from the inside. We know the turmoil and the unfinished work. They see the shape our trying has made.
If you have not listened to the Canon lately, or ever, give it a try. I just heard a piano version by the contemporary artist George Winston. I had a female colleague in New Mexico who had a CD with a dozen or so versions. She told me that her mystical “key” was D.
OK, who am I to argue with that?
A question: what do you consider your greatest birthday gift ever?
I need look no further.
The time and effort put in by my uber-caring Joan, and all the thoughtful and eloquent responses from friends and family, have value beyond measure. They gave me something I did not know I needed. They allowed me, for a little while, to hear my own life from where they stood.
I am still not sure I recognize the person they described.
But perhaps I do not need to argue with them. Perhaps I need to receive him, with gratitude, as one receives a melody one did not know had been playing.
I would like to grow up to be more like the man they saw — and to be worthy of the generosity with which they saw him.
What am I to do when they have a significant birthday?
Message: each of us may have our greatest value through the eyes of others. Think of that when you encounter those around you. At the very least, acknowledge their existence. Give them a greeting. And if you ask, “How are you?” mean it.
You may be offering them a glimpse of themselves they could not otherwise see.
You may be helping them hear the music of their own life.
That is what I am trying to do now, imperfectly, at eighty. And that, I think, was the greatest gift I received on my birthday: the gift of being seen.
On Becoming Eighty
By Clay Hipp
Time and country, music and memory
I was born on July 3, 1946.
It still surprises me that I am writing these lines after all this time. I am also aware of the privilege that is mine to have experienced such momentous decades.
Some have said that if one was born before the middle of the twentieth century and lived to be my age, one has witnessed the fastest rate of change in human history. That may be true. What is also true is that unthinking folk miss so much by ignoring that heritage, and thereby forgetting that we all stand on somebody’s shoulders.
A wise songwriter once put it this way: we are often “born to ignorance and privilege.”
Born to ignorance and privilege.
Is that not a haunting phrase?
Do we truly appreciate what it has meant to be born an American? Not merely in the flag-waving sense, or in the easy language of celebration, but in the deeper and more difficult sense: to inherit a country of astonishing possibility and terrible contradiction, of promise and blindness, of gifts we did not earn and responsibilities we have not always understood.
Years ago, I made up a little joke story about my birth in a very small mill town in upstate South Carolina. I have told it numerous times. Perhaps you have already been a victim. If so, feel free to leave the room for a few minutes while the unfortunate ones among you graciously humor me.
The story goes this way.
We had dial phones and only four numbers. Ours was, I think, 4642. They were called “party lines,” not because there was anything festive about them, but because several households shared the same line. Less than a block from our house, a Southern Bell employee—almost always a woman—sat in front of a large board filled with plugs. It was her job to know the town so well that she could connect callers almost instantaneously.
I tell you this to say that although we were barely 2,000 strong, word still traveled slowly, mostly by mouth. The town newspaper came out only once a week.
Consequently, by the time everyone heard about this obviously special new baby, it was already the next day. Finally, people took to the streets. They held a parade, prepared sumptuous barbecue feasts, listened to brass bands, and set off fireworks.
And you thought the Fourth of July was about independence from the odious King George.
That was merely an afterthought, because my birthday had been so much fun.
Seriously though, it is an interesting thing to realize that when I was born, the country was “only” 170 years old. Even more astounding is the fact that I have now lived through nearly another third of its life.
Really?
What might I do with this new and continuing reality?
At this significant moment, I am still coming to grips with uncertainty—not just about who I will be, but about what my world, my very country, will be for my children and grandchildren, our world and theirs.
There are no answers, so right now I would rather explore the questions.
As you know, my musical artists are helping me identify and ponder the most pressing things. But perhaps even more importantly, I am thinking more deeply about the things I choose to share with you. It is becoming clearer that if I want to find a voice with which to speak, I need to think more and more about what I can say that is worthy of whatever trust you have placed in me.
I also learned very recently that the music I love, whatever the genre, needs to be taken more seriously. That means I must learn to pay it more attention, and listen to it more caringly.
Joanie and I sat with someone who is becoming a special friend to her. She has just turned ninety and was once a classically trained artist of some renown. After trying for some time to make it so, we sat with her for the better part of three hours and listened to—and watched—two Beethoven symphonies.
We sat in complete silence, each in our own little seat, enraptured by Herbert von Karajan conducting the Berlin Philharmonic. Almost every minute, his eyes were closed in deep concentration, as though he were not merely directing the music but receiving it. More than one hundred musicians were creating something together, and yet the whole experience felt intimate.
I was almost totally speechless at the end. I think we all were.
And then came the joy of the Ode.
So as I look back, what stands out? Or, as someone asked me recently, what do you want to do with the next decade?
I thought hard for a few moments. I finally admitted that I had no grand expectations to fulfill. What I really wanted was simply “more of the same.”
A partner beyond anything I deserve, doing what I have wanted to do for a long time: writing about all the things that capture my curiosity and interest.
Traveling to places we can afford.
Spending as much time as possible in the rural parts of my environment.
Sitting on our private back porch in the early morning.
Give me another decade of that and I will be happy. Yet whatever portion I am granted, I will count myself grateful, knowing I have already received more than most.
Though if I'm permitted amendments: good health, a clear mind, and world peace would all be most welcome. And if the muses would finally kick in and inspire me to write the great American novel, that would be all right too. Come to think of it, I may have already made my own valiant attempt (a small regional publisher took six months to decide it fell just short of the mark).
You know what? I might just submit it to you, the finest jury of public opinion I could ask for.
Maybe a serialized version somewhere down the line?
Perhaps, if I screw my courage to the sticking place, we might just try that in the fall—call it a short course for community.
Hmmmmm.
As for my wish for you, one could do no better than a little more Beethoven. Begin, perhaps, with the Ninth Symphony. Find an online performance with the great Herbert von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic, and let yourself arrive at the “Ode to Joy” with full chorus and orchestra.
And literarily speaking, seriously consider Mark Helprins’ Freddy and Fredericka. Truly a great American novel. It will not feel that way at first, but wait for it. You may find yourself seeing your own country from a totally different perspective.
That is to say, please begin to look after yourself better—physically, emotionally, and spiritually, whatever you take that to mean.
Visit your interior life.
You are the only one who truly knows who you are and what you still hope to become.
As for me, I will keep sitting on that back porch, still working on the one thing eighty years has taught me is possible. I was born to ignorance and privilege — we all are, in this country perhaps more than most. The privilege was never mine to earn. But the ignorance has always been mine to lose.
I am not finished losing it. Even after eight decades, there is still so much left to unlearn.
Thank you for humoring an old man on his birthday.
Reason to Believe
By Clay Hipp
How a failed academic is still trying to believe
Firsts Steps, after Millet, 1890 - Vincent Van Gogh
I believe, as some have strongly suggested, that music has healing powers. I think it is especially true in the hands of our greatest songwriters. This is from a good one. Perhaps the creative spirit contained here might become a part of the healing process that can aid a renewed belief in ourselves. Read the lyrics slowly and mindfully. What do they say?
If I listened long enough to you
I'd find a way to believe that it's all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still, I'd look to find a reason to believe
Someone like you makes it hard to live without somebody else
Someone like you makes it easy to give
Never thinking of myself
If I gave you time to change my mind
I'd find a way to leave the past behind
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still, I'd look to find a reason to believe
If I listened long enough to you
I'd find a way to believe it's all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still, I'd look to find a reason to believe
—Tim Hardin (please find and listen to this plaintive song)
One might be saying: this is, obviously, just a broken-hearted love song, right?
So, what is its relevancy here?
When one begins to read and explore poetry, we find that the mind of the reader is a participant in the unfolding of the words, filling in the spaces with individual experience and insight. The lyrics of fine songs are a special form of poetry that should occupy a greater stage alongside the Rilkes and the Whitmans and the Nerudas. When we add music to the words, sometimes the magic happens—look and listen for it.
How might the distraught emotion of the quoted song find a wider meaning?
I am finding in the words of this song a strong metaphor for our times. How so, one might ask? I can only speak from my own personal experience.
I am a failed academic. I conclude this for many reasons, but the present moment has made it much clearer. I taught law in the context of business and its legal environment. My sacred texts were the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. I told several generations of our "best and brightest" about separation of powers and checks and balances and the delicate relationship between individuality and the general welfare. I preached that these were the basis of our freedom and liberty and that our democracy was self-adjusting.
The last decade has informed me that these were lies, or, at best, well-meaning and misplaced misrepresentations, and my own incurable idealism. So, in one way of speaking, I have lost my religion.
What if we begin to see the song in a new light? The democracy of which we have been a part becomes personified—a long-term friend. I have loved it and this country for a long, long time. I felt the relationship to be "true." It has now come to an end. I am sad, hurt, disoriented. How could I have been so blind? How could it have deceived me? The relationship is over. I have been lied to all along. And yet…
…I cannot seem to let it go so easily. What if I hang on and listen for any counter messages of hopefulness? If I just pay attention for a while yet, might I find a reason to see behind the lies and discover that in spite of everything, I might believe again in what we had.
The songwriter gives us a basis for hanging on. Someone like you—our democracy—has been such a thing of promise for over two centuries. What could ever be a substitute for such a "home"? Would we find such a thing elsewhere to give ourselves to—this dream of liberty?
Perhaps, after a period of mourning, might we reconsider the relationship in a new light. If we give it up, even physically leave, what have we gained; what is our motive? Is it revenge; are we expressing our individual disgust at being scorned; is this, in the end, our ego speaking? In other words, how could you have done this to me?
At the very least, the plea of democracy was that we must give up a piece of ourselves to create "out of many, one"—to become a more perfect union while thinking of our general, that is, shared, welfare. Should not the dream of our republic once again make it easy to give to the other?
Someone like you makes it hard to live without somebody else
Someone like you makes it easy to give
Never thinking of myself
In the midst of it all, I find myself searching fervently for some "reason to believe." Let me be quick to say that, to my mind, both sides of the aisle have reason to feel that they have been lied to about the promises of the American Dream. This is not the time or place to explore them—they are myriad.
Rather, I want to say to you and myself what the songwriter expresses with great emotion and tenderness, and I have found some solace in it. It is my fervent hope that one or more of my former students might read this verse and find that they could forgive me for any false confidence that I gave them over our "innocent" years together.
If I listened long enough to you
I'd find a way to believe that it's all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still, I'd look to find a reason to believe
The promise of our shared democracy is not a lie. Perhaps it has simply been forgotten in the course of our busy and distracted individual and collective lives.
Instead of continuing on that path, perhaps we should heed his other advice:
Someone like you (democracy) makes it hard to live without somebody else (each other)
Someone like you (good citizen) makes it easy to give
Never thinking of myself
Let us pledge to each other as we go forward with our shared blessings and learn to give more and think less of our own selfish desires. And try to "believe that it's all true"—once again….
A great writer had these words of wisdom for us at this troubled time:
“Every age, every culture, every custom and tradition has its own character, its own weakness and its own strength, its beauties and ugliness; accepts certain sufferings as matters of course, puts up patiently with certain evils.
Human life is reduced to real suffering, to hell, only when two ages, two cultures and religions overlap. A man of the Classical Age who had to live in medieval times would suffocate miserably just as a savage does in the midst of our civilisation.
Now there are times when a whole generation is caught in this way between two ages, two modes of life, with the consequence that it loses all power to understand itself and has no standard, no security, no simple acquiescence.”
-Herman Hesse in Steppenwolf
And…..
"We too are living now through such a world, caught again between two ages, confused and conflicted, suffocating and suffering. But we have a powerful instrument for self-understanding, for cutting through the confusion to draw from these civilizational phase transitions new and stronger structures of possibility: the creative spirit."
-Maria Popova of The Marginalian
Seek out the efforts of our artists and writers and composers. Let them feed your consciousness and, perhaps, begin to heal your very personal wounds such that we can find a better consensus within which to live together.
Sandlot America
by Clay Hipp
Reflections on a Significant Birthday — Mine and My Country’s
I have never been a big celebration guy, but this might be the toughest Fourth of July ever for me.
It is not even because, on the third, I turn eighty. Rather, it is because I have truly been looking forward to celebrating a big birthday — one I thought I might never reach.
I am even having a wave of patriotism.
Before you jump to any conclusions about that, allow me to say that my status as a “patriot” stems from my love of the idea and spirit of our founding documents: unity, freedom, truths held self-evident, and our dedication to the pursuit of happiness. Patriotic hymns leave me flat. Flag waving has become some ambiguous sign of identity, and it has separated us. But it is the American flag, and it belongs to us all.
Yet, on the eve of a monumental celebration of our country, I feel so disconnected from the planned celebrations. As I see it, this should be about the people of the country, an honest look at our past and present and how imperfect and worthy it all is, not just a personal display of egoism.
Maybe that is what I am trying to say on this birthday, both mine and my country’s: the flag belongs to us all. The country belongs to the people. No one individual can take it away, though one individual can corrupt it to the point that it seems to exist no longer.
Do not believe it.....
I grew up in a small, simple Southern town with traditional values. I am proud to say that despite being completely segregated, socially and geographically, I came to know goodness. My family was blessed to have three true members of our household who were racially different and who worked intimately in our home life — and who shaped me in ways I am still accounting for.
I know. Many I have talked to in these “enlightened times” would pooh-pooh or dismiss that very statement and say something like, “Oh yeah,” as if seeing through our façade. They did not experience the life we shared. We truly loved Pearl Coleman and Sam Fant and Bertha Hopp, and it is my firmly held belief that they felt the same.
Pearl worked side by side with Granny Bessie. Sam did everything for Granddaddy Hipp — he could fix anything and always dressed impeccably. Bertha came to us at twelve to take care of me and my brother. Mother almost died delivering my little brother, and Bertha was with us every day, though she continued to live on the other side of the tracks until she graduated and moved to Brooklyn — her dream. I think about that often. Her dream was to leave. And we loved her, and she went anyway, toward something larger than what we could offer her.
They came in the back door. They could not eat at our table, could not sit beside us in school, could not drink from our fountain, yet they were closer to us than most of our neighbors ever were — in some ways closer than family. That is not a defense of the system. That is an honest look at its complexity — it gave and took from us.
So what, you say — let me tell you, this time through the eyes of a child......
There was a vacant lot across the street where we played every sport year-round. One day a group of young Black kids walked by and asked if they could play. We welcomed them and had a spirited game of baseball. I have no idea if we even kept score. What I remember is that it felt like the most natural thing in the world — that the sandlot had room, that there were enough kids who wanted to play, and that for an afternoon, that was enough.
The next morning the deacon of the church that owned the lot knocked on our front door. He spoke simply and without apology.
This must never happen again.
I have carried those words for seventy years. Not as a wound exactly. More as a question I have never stopped turning over. Because the game happened. It was real. Something broke through — briefly, imperfectly, on a summer afternoon — and then someone knocked on the door and drew the line back.
That, too, was America.
I graduated in 1964 having never gone to school with a Black student. My brother graduated in 1969 and played baseball with Donnie Shell, who became an All-Pro football player with Pittsburgh and its “Steel Curtain.” Together, David and Donnie led my high school to its one and only state championship. Something had shifted, however slightly, however incompletely. The sandlot had gotten a little bigger.
I tell you this so that you can somehow feel that this was the America I went to Vietnam for.
The draft ended, and my brother was not required to go. When I came home to the Army base in my jungle fatigues, I was not a hero but a “baby killer.” Fifty-eight thousand young Americans died. One American paid a doctor to declare that his feet were too bad for combat boots — the beginning of the end of truth.
Some would call the story of my childhood idyllic. It was not. It felt very normal to me. We were all Americans despite our differences — and sometimes because of them. We rode bicycles, played sandlot games, and always let the screen door slam despite our mothers protests. Everyone watched the six o’clock news. We watched the same shows and argued about Fords and Chevys and our favorite teams. And somewhere in all of that ordinary life, something was being built that I did not have a name for then. I think now it might have been called neighbor.
In the fall of 1955, Bertha and I watched the World Series together — the Yankees against the Brooklyn Dodgers. I do not have to tell you which team she pulled for. Jackie Robinson was the star of her team, and she knew what his presence on that field meant in a way I was too young to fully understand. We sat together in that living room, in that town, watching him, and something was happening between us that neither of us had the words for yet.
I was a child. She was not much older. The town had drawn its lines around us both. And there we were anyway, in the same room, rooting for something.
What have I learned in eighty years?
I have learned that goodness can live inside a deeply unjust world. I have learned that love can be real and still not be enough to make a system right. I have learned that nostalgia is dangerous if it asks us to forget the pain that made the past possible. But I have also learned that memory is necessary if we are to recover anything worth saving.
The sandlot was not a just place. The rules that governed who could play and who could not were written by people with more power than any of us had. And yet something happened on that lot — something worth remembering. Not because the injustice did not matter, but because the reaching toward one another happened anyway, in the middle of it, imperfectly and briefly and genuinely. That is the America I am still looking for.
So I long for something, somebody, some movement that can bring some of that spirit back — not the segregation, not the silence, not the false innocence, but the neighborliness, the shared stories, the sense that this country belongs to all of us.
On this Independence Day, search your heart and ask: what must I do for my country’s sake, and for my fellow Americans? Reach across the barriers. Open your eyes and see only neighbors. Greet every single person with a smile. We have no idea what their lives are like. They just need to be acknowledged. They just need to know they exist.
Maybe that is where America begins again — not in speeches or parades, not in the possession of the flag by one party or one person, but in the vacant lot across the street, where someone different walks by and asks if there is room to play.
And this time, let us say yes.
Let us say yes, and mean it.
“Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today
Is a day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay
It’s Independence Day”
-Gretchen Peters
Music Heals
By Clay Hipp
Musical, 1993
by Romanian artist Vasil Dobrian
You make the world a better place
When you sing
You bring us closer to a state of grace
When you sing, when you sing
Do you know the joy you bring
When you sing?
-John Gorka
Someone told me recently that it seems as if your music blog and your journal entries are overlapping or even merging. It took me a few minutes to ponder and digest that thought. Ultimately, I could not disagree.
About six months before we finally set up the Jomeokee Journal, I was hard at work negotiating with WFDD to give me a slot for a music show. It has still not come to fruition, but in the meantime, we began to pursue my longtime dream of sharing ideas in a journal format.
I had been working on a book about my love and admiration for the art of singer/songwriters. I wrote and rewrote, but something was always wrong. I could tell you now why it felt that way, but it might bore you with detail about how and why it was not fulfilling my expectations.
I would rather talk about my reader friend's observation. It did not surprise me at all. I see clearly that I have been pursuing literature and music on parallel paths for most of my life, since my mother read to us and played light classical music. A perfect example, I think, is a composition called The Moldau by the Czech master Smetana. It paints a musical picture of the famous river. A poet might have done the same with words. Go even further back, and we would have found "balladeers" roaming the European landscape telling stories in song because there was not yet adequate written language. Art of all kinds is truly tied together as an expression of the human spirit.
I simply was a listener and a singer and one who read voraciously. Being fascinated by the joining of poetry and music just came naturally (and clearly nurtured by my mother's love for each). Having refused, regrettably, to take piano lessons, she gave me a baritone ukulele. I moved on to a guitar and became a "folksinger" and member of that might have, if things had gone differently, pursued a musical career. Songs have been a part of my heart and mind always.
So now, finally, I flit back and forth in the interplay of wanting to become a writer and a discriminating curator of a particular genre of music. Bless my soul, I seem to have no choice.
There are so many overlaps among music, verse, and the expressions they convey. Franz Schubert, in his few years with us, wrote symphonic pieces, chamber music, and even works for piano called "Songs Without Words" and the internal pictures they held. Gustav Mahler, a romantic at heart who was captured by the emerging "modern" world, wrote symphonies that bore little resemblance to the classical form of Beethoven and others. Rather than four movements, his long works wandered from one idea to another, and he was an innovator in inserting choral music into the orchestral landscape. They might wander for an hour or so, confounding some and turning others into amazed and adoring consumers of his style(s).
What is all of this about?
Well, sometimes when I am envisioning a new piece for the journal, song lyrics come flooding into consciousness, sometimes making me wonder if I have covered this ground elsewhere in some other language. Today's piece was inspired by the "Words That Sing" posting on Friday. I played some songs from a new album by the great North Carolina band the Steep Canyon Rangers called Next Act.
She said
For my next act, I’m not acting for anyone
Hold to the love thats held me true
For my next act, I’m gonna have me a little fun
Its been too long I’ve played the fool
Those days are done
And this…..
Oh, ain’t it a mess to see my masterpiece come spilling out over the edge for all my care and all the years
All that I can say is I just want to crawl back in bed and put it all away some days
Oh, some days swerving out of my lane and I don’t want the words to call this feeling by its name, give me someone to blame
Ah, it’s just me here alone walking around half-dead, hanging my head all day long
Some days nothing comes easy, Some days nothing’ll please me, Some days I’m just barely getting by
But right now’s the perfect time to hold my tongue before I make things worse
Reaching out for help’s not easily done But I’m learning Oh, some days
Or these:
All the names I recognize as my connections and my kin
The products of a shared imagination
And where we stand right now betrays the way it was back then
So we do the best we can based on partial information
And just when we think we’re in the clear
I look around and wonder
How the hell did we ever get here?
History will show
We make it up as we go
And the heart’s the only compass you can trust
And the way from yours to mine
It never was a straight line
It’s a tale of hope and fear and love and lust
I listen to these songs (marvelous) and then I go back and read the lyrics. They mirror my, and almost anyone's, potential feelings and concerns about trying to survive in these times.
But then I think, "I cannot hope to find words like these. Why do I even try?"
Next, I give thanks that we have been given these artists to inspire and remind us that we are in this together.
Well, that went south pretty fast — my apologies…
So yes, music heals — not by fixing everything, not by making the world simpler than it is, but by giving us a space to process our emotions, to hear a hard truth, and still receive comfort. It does not remove us from the struggle, but it reminds us that we do not enter it alone.
Living Words
By Clay Hipp
Reflections on reading, roots, and what we owe each other
Sunlit Wall Under a Tree, 1913, John Singer Sargent, American
“When I grow up I want to be a tree
Make my home with the birds and the bees
And the squirrels, they can count on me,
When I grow up to be a tree”
-John Gorka
Weather permitting, I spend some morning time on my back porch. The yard is very private, with large trees all around. The number and variety of birds is impressive (no feeder).
Today the morning air was cool, and a breeze created a moving mosaic. A family of squirrels has long made its home in an especially large scarlet oak, a variety that grows tall, and its limbs remain very flexible, with light and sky shining through—they wave in any puff of wind. As I watch the acrobatic squirrels move swiftly on their rounds, they look almost like small monkeys. They find just the right path to move easily from branch to branch and sometimes leap ten feet or so (and never miss).
As I sat alone and quiet, I thought of Sunday's post and some things I might have said. The first came as I was pondering my selections. It was so wonderful to realize that every one of them was created in the mind and with the imagination of a "real" human being. The prolific Wendell Berry wrote every word on a yellow legal pad, and his wife transcribed them on an old manual typewriter. He never had a computer.
The best of our writers are giving us a personal, filtered version of the reality of their lives—and a reflection of ours. All these selections have my admiration. Second thought: I do not claim superiority. These represent my "preferences." If you are one who loves to read, that is enough for me, even if your preference is "best sellers" or a choice of an "influencer." Those of us who choose to spend our precious time in communion with other minds rather than information overload are, I believe, richer for it. I am truly concerned that if we are not diligent in our choices, we might just accidentally fall for seemingly well-written facsimiles devoid of true creativity.
Yes, I am a neo-Luddite. When I read old English novels, I feel a larger kinship with my ancestors. Several people have told me that I should have been born in the nineteenth century—so be it. Perhaps if there had been more "enlightened" European immigrants, we might have been able to join our culture with the existent first Americans and been the better for it (but hindsight is 20/20).
Read Cather, Grey, or Guthrie and decide for yourself.
All right, I will have an inspired Words That Sing on Friday, and who knows about the next Journal on Sunday. Let's make it a summer of reflection on our gift of the Declaration. We are not what the American Dream might have had in mind, but remember—we are a nation of immigrants who have, so far, been able to overcome our differences, with the possibility of rebuilding a stronger bond—perhaps as a result.
This should be a celebration….
The lyrics to Celebration by folk singer-songwriter David Mallett serve as a poignant social commentary and a battle cry for a better nation. Released in 2016 on his 17th studio album, the song contrasts political and societal struggles with a hopeful call for change.
This can’t be our destination
This could be a better nation
Time to set the big horse racin’
We can change the situation
Trains are leavin from the station
Need a brand new generation
This could be a celebration now, now...
Change is hard, but inevitable, and worth our closest attention.
P.S. A footnote:
I just finished reading The Vanishing American by Zane Grey. If you wish to get a true picture of what it was like for a Native young man to be removed from his family, taken to an "Indian" school in the East, have his hair cut, his native clothes taken and burned, forbidden to speak his own language, all to become "civilized," consider reading this sweeping tale.
He eventually earns a college degree, falls in love, and becomes, in his words, "half white" before deciding to return to his people, now on a "reservation," only to find that he is now neither—his cultures in conflict, his religious views at war…. It was revelatory to watch him suffer.
Hard, but worthy, fiction at its best.
I read a story somewhere, probably apocryphal, about an old Native chief who called himself a "peace" chief, rather than "war." His small tribe lived remotely in the mountains. He befriended a white rancher below, on the Oregon Trail. They met and exchanged stories, each trying to stay out of trouble.
When he was on his deathbed, they spoke for the last time. A Catholic priest had just been there trying, one more time, to convert him, only to leave unfulfilled. The chief said to him: "I have spent my whole life trying to understand the white man. I have not found a single one who tried to understand me."
Sadly, I think that has never changed….
A Summer Syllabus for the Soul
By Clay Hipp
Find your way somewhere without ever leaving the porch
Woman Reading in a Forest, 1875, Gyula Benczúr, Hungarian Painter
"There is treasure everywhere." — Calvin and Hobbes
I find my treasures in song and all music, poetry and literature, time at the table communing with friends and family, and, of course, the beauty of the natural world around us.
As I look forward to easing my mind to be able to celebrate this huge moment in our time as a union, I ask, “What will suffice”? More and more music, for sure. I just looked at the scheduled performances at the Brevard Music Center; I felt almost compelled to sell everything and move somewhere nearby. It is just far enough away from here to make us think twice about going down. The riches that we forgo each summer almost make me cry. There are a few performances that I pledged to myself not to miss….
But, there is an easier way of going somewhere: on the porch in the early morning and evening, or air conditioning if necessary…reading something worthy. Since you have not asked, I will tell you anyway the sources that I am consulting this season. Mostly classic fiction with some fine nonfiction writers as well. Here is a tentative list of authors and their works that I recommend highly:
Fiction — The West
Willa Cather
Any of her novels is a worthy read and getaway. A few that you may or may not know:
—Death Comes to the Archbishop. Set in colonial New Mexico, it introduces us to attempts to take the “gospel” to the pioneers, the Spanish, and the natives. It also gives us a look at the hardships and the difficulties associated with clashing cultures and of merely surviving in a difficult climate, but also the beauty of what would become known as the “Land of Enchantment” — did I mention the sunsets?
—Song of the Lark. “In this powerful portrait of the self-making of an artist, Willa Cather created one of her most extraordinary heroines. Thea Kronberg, a minister's daughter in a provincial Colorado town, seems destined from childhood for a place in the wider world. But as her path to the world stage leads her ever farther from the humble town she can't forget and from the man she can't afford to love, Thea learns that her exceptional musical talent and fierce ambition are not enough.” — Vintage Classics
—One of Ours. “Claude Wheeler's journey from the Great Plains to the battles of World War I are chronicled in Willa Cather's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. The sensitive, aspiring protagonist of this beautifully modulated novel, resembles the youngest son of a peculiarly American fairy tale. His fortune is ready-made for him, but he refuses to settle for it.”
Zane Grey
I grew up thinking that he only wrote “cowboy books.” Boy, was I wrong, and I am so glad to have found him now. Yes, there are “cowboys,” but they ride herd on cattle and protect them from harm and theft. He writes about the clash of missionaries and “heathens” and the effect on the relationships men and women, and can spin a worthy love story. Oh yeah, he also writes stories that illustrate his love of baseball at the beginning of the 20th century. He was a prolific writer. One might start with Riders of the Purple Sage and a sequel. A very special novel is named The Vanishing American, which was inspired by the life of the great Jim Thorpe.
His writing is more than storytelling. His prose is unbelievably beautiful and paints word pictures of the desert Southwest.
Wallace Stegner
To my mind, one of our greatest writers, who is known for his chronicles of the West. He was a professor of literature and an environmentalist. His writing program at Stanford was attended by Wendell Berry, Ken Kesey, and many others…. Consider reading:
Angle of Repose, Big Rock Candy Mountain, Crossing to Safety, and a nonfiction masterpiece, Beyond the Hundredth Meridian, a biography of John Wesley Powell, the first non-native to travel through the Grand Canyon on the Colorado River.
A.B. Guthrie
The Big Sky and The Way West. Guthrie was literate, but his research was clear and his care for our grand history impressive. I recommend him to those who like to explore places through stirring, adventurous storytelling.
Fiction — Contemporary
Wendell Berry
A Place on Earth, Jayber Crow, The Memory of Old Jack. All of us must get to know Berry’s work—there is also poetry and essays about sustainable farming. Jayber Crow is one of the finest novels in my experience. His story as a barber in a small town in Kentucky has it all and is a major component of a continuing story about the mythical village of Port William that begins with A Place on Earth through his novels and short stories.
Ursula Le Guin
The Left Hand of Darkness, The Dispossessed, and the series, Tales from Earthsea. A writer of “future history” along with some fantasy. Le Guin unfolds the story of civilizations to come. It teaches about our present through speculative thinking about the future.
Marilynne Robinson
Gilead and four sequels tell the story of Reverend John Ames. It comprises the fictional autobiography of John Ames, an elderly Congregationalist pastor in the small, secluded town of Gilead, Iowa, who knows that he is dying of a heart condition. At the beginning of the book, the date is established as 1956. Ames explains that he is writing an account of his life for his seven-year-old son, who will have few memories of him. Ames indicates he was born in 1880. He said that he was seventy-six years old at the time of writing.
Richard Powers
The Overstory, Bewilderment, Playground. Powers has the finest mind among our present writers. Headed at one time towards astrophysics, he can no longer be contained. Please read The Overstory and get his big picture.
Mark Helprin
A Winter’s Tale, A Soldier of the Great War, Freddy and Fredericka, The Oceans and the Stars. Quite simply unmatchable prose and storytelling. Please consider Soldier; you will never experience literature in the same way again.
Nonfiction
And finally, the story of our precious world through the eyes and minds of one indescribable man and four miraculous women:
—Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey, anthropologist and much more.
—Andrea Wulf, The Invention of Nature, nature writer.
—Marcia Bjornerud, Turning to Stone, geologist.
—Suzanne Simard, Finding the Mother Tree, forestry, biology.
—Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass, biologist, Native American ancestry.
I would adore teaching these as a course for the curious.
So there it is — my summer syllabus, offered freely and without apology. Pull up a chair. Pour something cold. Let the porch do its work. The treasure, as Calvin always knew, is everywhere. You need only open the cover.
American Dream
— An Inspired Vision
By Clay Hipp
Thomas Paine, Mark Helprin, and the America that could still be
New England Scenery, Thomas Cole, American — 1839
Not having the talent and ability to find words, and needing words, I look to others for the wisdom I seek. I hope that you find it worthy and perhaps inspiring.
In his work called "Common Sense," Thomas Paine used words that painted his picture of the reasons for the Revolution:
"Men who look upon themselves born to reign, and others to obey, soon grow insolent; selected from the rest of mankind their minds are early poisoned by importance; and the world they act in differs so materially from the world at large, that they have but little opportunity of knowing its true interests, and when they succeed to the government are frequently the most ignorant and unfit of any throughout the dominions."
"Society in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one; for when we suffer, or are exposed to the same miseries by a government, which we might expect in a country without government, our calamity is heightened by reflecting that we furnish the means by which we suffer."
"The more men have to lose, the less willing are they to venture."
What must we do to re-capture the essence of the revolutionary Dream?
What should we be made of, and who should lead us? What vision of ourselves must we adopt to be willing to "venture" — to answer, perhaps, Paine's urgent plea for creating and nurturing a new nation founded in "Liberty and Justice" for all?
In a brilliant novel, Mark Helprin, one of our finest crafters of fiction, tells a compelling story that just might illustrate our way — or has our reality become even stranger than fiction?
Please consider reading Helprin's novel during the election cycle. To pique your curiosity, the plot:
A Prince of Wales does not live up to the standards of the royal family and is sent into exile to redeem himself. He and his mate are parachuted into New Jersey. They have only the clothes on their backs and little money, of which they are robbed. They must forge their way. For a while they are street people, then passengers on a freight train. They work at odd jobs all across the continent. They have come to love their adopted country. Towards the end of their exile, the former prince has the opportunity to comment on his "American" experience.
Here is a portion of what he said:
"How many would-be presidents and presidents-to-be have stood on this figurative spot and begun their speeches with meaningless and formulaic salutations? I am not familiar with such salutations, and even were I, I would not start in with anything but something like a love song to this country….
I believe from knowing each one, that your presidents of late have, unbelievably, failed to know, and to consider the interests of the country and its people as a whole. Surely, this can lead only to disaster. They may know policy and politics but these, even to someone educated in them, are in the last analysis not much more than a game. Thus, the politicians have transformed the life of a nation into a game they play continuously for their own edification. But games are man-made abstractions, as weak as water, with none of the fullness, beauty, and consequence of life.
Life is not a game, nations are not to be gamed, and people are not to be addressed outside their moral complexities. You may ask what this means. It means that if I were to run for the highest office or the lowest, I would not try to find out what you want and then strain to offer it to you. That is what they do, and well.
If only the satisfaction of want could satisfy, then satisfaction would come upon the fulfillment of the first request. But it never does. It merely leads to other needs that lead yet again to others, for in the satisfaction of one desire lies the creation of another. Even were the lies you are told by dishonest men actually true, and if you did truly want what you want, the minute you had it your happiness would depart. This I know because I have had every material and privilege in the world.
The model of a president has been of a man who comes to you like a salesman and promises things. I think the model of a president should be a man who comes to you and says, "This is what I have seen, this is what I believe, this is how I live, and this is what I love." Surely you would know a man better for this than you would know a man possessed of a list crowded with numbers and littered with prostituted oaths.
When confronted with the creature from whom these words spill like jellyfish vomited from the mouths of whales, my reaction has always been that, though I would like to be prosperous, this is not what I am. What about the little courage that I have, the 'honour' for which I strive, my attempts at faithfulness? These are what you should address. Why do you not see them? Why do you not sense the heart of your own country? Why do you reflexively pull away from deep waters whenever inadvertently you glide over them?
…
I have read your Declaration and Constitution… I came to see these are lucid and perfect documents and if you return to them as faithfully as they have served you since the beginning, they will not fail you.
You have neglected them and are unclear about the duties of a citizen and what comes by right. You seem to have forgotten the ancient battles in which you prevailed, and, more importantly, those that you merely survived. You seem to have forgotten that your original principles in a land that was carpeted with virgin stands of trees, and the principles by which you have lived — immaterial and bright, ever-enduring — grew up just as strong and fresh. Return to them. They are waiting for you, as reserves of honor as vast as the stands of trees that once spread without end.
In your beginnings you looked down upon such a spectacle….
Everything I believe about America has its origins in a small farmhouse and on the green of a New England village. Everything I believe about America has its origins in places like that and in the landscape itself."
(Mark Helprin in Freddy and Fredericka.)
Offered for your contemplation and, perhaps, action.
[If you are so moved, please share it with others that you trust and care for.]
Coming Home
By Clay Hipp
Returning from France, a song remembered. America, reconsidered.
Landscape with a Rainbow, Oil on Canvas, Robert S. Ducanson, 1859
We were preparing last week to return from France (an event I was very much looking forward to) when a song title came to mind: "America the Beautiful." Funny, because I hadn't heard or sung it in a long time. Remember the first verse?
O beautiful for spacious skies,
or amber waves of grain,For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America! God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhoodFrom sea to shining sea!
We had stayed in the city of Dijon, but on the train to and from Paris, I marveled at the rural villages surrounded by fields of grain and vineyards. They looked as if they had been untouched by modern times — churches and homes built of stone and wood, connected by small two-lane roads winding through the countryside. My first thoughts were of amazement at the lack of billboards. It renewed my belief in country living.
Might the song have taken me back to a simpler time in America?
The song was written in the late nineteenth century as a poem by Katherine Lee Bates in 1882. It was amended twice and published as a hymn by Samuel A. Ward (a church organist and choir master) in 1895. During the Kennedy administration, it was thought by many a better national anthem but never achieved that status. Bates was inspired by a trip west to Pikes Peak and the views from 14,000 feet. She was obviously one who believed in a country and a people that were blessed by the creator to live among such rare beauty and bounty. The lyrics must have made me nostalgic.
Oh, to feel that way again.
On the plane I was still contemplating the words, especially “And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea!” I suddenly had the feeling that, on the nine-hour flight, I was on a ship as an Immigrant. My roots are Scots-Irish and German on my dad’s side, and English on my mother’s. As I have been fortunate to travel widely, I have developed an affinity for the people of Italy and more recently the countryside of Southern France. (I am a former grape farmer and more and more attached to specific terrains and plots of favored regions.)
So, when I returned and was still in the afterglow of the trip. I could not help but reflect on my current status as an American citizen. My mother would have been welcome. My dad’s emigrant forebears, not so much. The Germans and Irish arriving in the Carolinas were forced to move to the Piedmont (being unwelcome in Charleston society) where the red clay soil was poor and even cotton fields became unproductive. They were subsistence farmers at best. Those who came down the Appalachians were mere hillbillies. They used moonshine as a currency to subsidize their basic needs.
What am I trying to say?
The beauties of our natural bounty were, in many ways, only skin-deep. The real beauty of America was — and remains — the idea set down by the founding brothers in the Declaration of Independence:
We hold these truths to be self-evident,
that all men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,
that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
That to secure these rights,
Governments are instituted among Men,
deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…
Unalienable rights. Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
We sit at the gate of our 250th celebration of the creation and proclamation of “America the Beautiful”. On July 4th, sit with family and friends and read this together as your blessing. Then, if you feel as I do, that these next four months MUST become a rebirth of that idea and these founding words, sit by no longer. Use your voices, your talents, and your sacred vote to reclaim what is left of left of the gift given to ALL of us by those who literally bet their lives that it was an essential act of the brotherhood of mankind.
None of us were yet “Americans” in truth, but merely those who came to these shores seeking the opportunities afforded us by these seemingly unquenchable riches—one of which is the freedom and the power to govern ourselves…in spite of our obvious differences.
"Oh beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years,
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!"
Of which there have been plenty…..
Let us not allow this beautiful American Idea to be further corrupted by wealth and power.
"Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today
Is a day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay
It's Independence Day."
- Gretchen Peters
Everything Worth Saving
By Clay Hipp
Solnit’s quiet challenge, a reason to begin
The Gleaners, Jean-François Millet, 1857
I have no interest whatsoever in being an "influencer." In fact, I think it is becoming a dirty word — one created by our market-based economy and, yes, our society.
It is rooted in inflated egos that seek favor not by improving the lives of those around them, but by gaining personal benefits at others' expense.
Look around you as you "consume" the news. The word pops up everywhere. We are so insecure about almost everything that we are willing to take advice from anyone with even an ounce of fame or fortune.
The problem? We are giving up independent thinking.
We want simple answers to difficult questions — and in the process, we seem perfectly content to be manipulated. The result? We become a part of the machine. And the machine cares nothing about our individual wellbeing; it cares only about conformity, so that we can be led by the collective nose ring. Wisdom, in this world, is merely conventional — accepting things as they are, because radical change is hard.
The single most impactful "influencer" of our modern age was Milton Friedman, of the famous Chicago School of economics. He was, in essence, a deeply fundamental thinker — simple in the most dangerous sense of the word. He announced what he considered an essential rule of economics:
"The sole social responsibility of business is to increase its profits while engaging in open and free competition, without deception or fraud."
He argued that corporate executives are agents of shareholders, and that their duty is to maximize shareholder value — not to pursue social goals. He published this in the New York Times in 1970, and found a very receptive market for his idea. It simplified everything: individuals and businesses need not be distracted by moral considerations in their decision-making. It appealed to the American ideal of individualism. It has been the prevailing gospel ever since. We bought it because it is easier to accept than to contemplate another way — even as we know, somewhere in our bones, that it is the root cause of many of our deepest problems.
If we are going to create a new, kinder world, we must first learn to visualize what it might look like — to actually care about one another. For me, one major first step is to stop watching, or to give up altogether on, the everyday news as handed down by our major media outlets. They are, in the end, corporate influencers who must make money to survive. That means attracting and keeping audiences — which means telling us only what they think we want to hear, whether good or bad, rather than offering the balanced, honest content our Constitution is supposedly protecting.
I have a suggestion. I knew the name, but until recently had not read her work. Please consider picking up The Beginning Comes After the End, by Rebecca Solnit. One reviewer puts it this way:
"The book shines a light on the vibrant world often hidden within our own seemingly gloomier one — a world that has embraced ideas of interconnection, ecological care, and political equality. It's not a naïve book — Solnit is keenly aware of the challenges we're all facing — but it provides a stabilizing counterweight to the feeling that the world, of late, has spun dangerously off-kilter."
Watch also the interview Solnit gave with David Marchese in the New York Times, in which she clearly and accessibly explains the title and its message. He asks a question that seems written for exactly this moment:
"When people are reading the news and it's making them feel as if they're barreling into a grim dystopian future, what additional context should they have that would help them complete the picture and show them that there are deeper currents of positive change happening?"
Does that not sound like exactly what we need — and precisely how many of us are feeling right now?
In that same interview, Solnit offers a thought I haven't been able to shake:
"One of the great weaknesses of our era is that we get lone superhero movies that suggest that our big problems are solved by muscly guys in spandex, when actually the world mostly gets changed through collective effort."
The counter to what ails us, she argues, has always been civil society — not a single savior, not an Übermensch, but the slow, patient work of people caring for one another. She invokes Thich Nhat Hanh, who said before he died that "the next Buddha will be the Sangha" — the community of practitioners. Maybe changing the world looks more like caregiving than warfare. Too many of us still expect it to look like war.
It has turned my mind around. Perhaps it will do the same for you. Perhaps we can begin to escape a world that is wholly political — all the way down to the ugly bottom. The great, reasonable middle — the people who represent good sense and genuine caring — just might become the true source of wisdom, as it always has been. But that middle must live it, speak it aloud, and use the power of the ballot.
"Everything we can save is worth saving. Everything we can do is worth doing. We've already lost a lot, but we don't have to lose everything. We don't have to surrender."
Let us start today to seek that new beginning — the one waiting out there, hidden behind the dangerous belief that this is the end. There is already too much pie-in-the-sky, revolutionary talk being tossed around. Solnit is not an out-of-touch, egoistic influencer. She is a true thinker who has spent years working on these problems, and who speaks directly to who we are and who we might still become.
Want a ray of light? Read Solnit. Watch the interview. Then go do something — together.
How to Live—and Why We Write
By Clay Hipp
Writing is excavation: the work of going deeper
Philosopher in Meditation, Rembrandt—1632
Awaking, as usual, around five, I began to ponder some ideas for the future content of my budding journal.
I had been rather stuck for several weeks, moving between creative pieces and commentary on several topics. My longstanding love of music seemed to hover over every piece, with song lyrics hankering to insinuate themselves at odd moments. I realized that my other love — literature — was being given short shrift.
I sat with that thought for a while, and then started asking harder questions…
The day before, I had posted a list of books, videos, and music I was recommending for the upcoming summer. Along with my choices, I had written short reasons for their inclusion, and it seemed only proper to speak of their qualities. Looking back, I can see that these were, in fact, little critical reviews. I suppose that provided the inspiration for taking a critical look at my own work.
The biggest revelation was this: I was lacking direction.
For six months — during which we posted three times a week — we were always faced with tiny deadlines. Each post was, in fact, stand-alone. It was not a great burden, but I did wonder how it could be lightened.
As I sat in the dark of my "blue morning," pondering, I was reminded of a lovely e-mail from the day before praising the "literature" post as "that was a good one." My next thought was: How can I make my own work more worthy?
The answer that appeared:
To create a stream that follows a theme.
Then, of course — what might that theme be? I cannot say that I received a clear answer, or at least one I became committed to, but a seed was sown.
The question implied that a good writer must, as they say, "follow what provides the most inspiration" — in other words, what gives your thinking momentum. Rather than reveal my tentative answer, I shall attempt to pursue it and let the reader decide.
I will also ask that you remember this day, and give me a bit of time to develop my stream and theme. Only later will I likely discover whether the new quest is achieving any success — but I believe I will somehow know the answer, if and when.
One of my motivating thoughts has been Jens Kruger's Beautiful Nothing — an instrumental composition attempting to convey a concept I have come to believe in: a mysterious "thing" with no true form, but with much substance. Someday I will attempt to "translate" it for you. For now, it is a state of mind I would very much like to achieve. It may just be the secret of life.
(For your enlightenment: the little piece is very gentle, and at one point — about two-thirds of the way through — it stops, pauses for a few seconds, and resumes. I have interpreted that pause as the beautiful nothing moment.)
One of the most influential books I have read lately is How to Live by Sarah Bakewell — about the famous sixteenth-century Frenchman, Montaigne, who essentially invented the essay as a form of literature. Bakewell introduces us by posing twenty questions she would have asked him, then answers them as she believes he might have. His writing was a deep observation of his own life: looking, describing, and analyzing critically what he observed.
(Montaigne was, in a very real sense, ahead of his time. Four centuries later, a branch of philosophy called Phenomenology arose — similar in spirit to his writing — and eventually gave rise to existentialism.)
I have been told that my powers of observation are keen, but since reading Bakewell, I have tried hard to hone them to an even finer level. The idea of the title is "how to live" — not how one should live. That distinction matters.
The quest of my writing life, so far, is to let my work inform my better judgment: a deeper attention to the world around me. Getting the journal off the ground was a grand achievement, but after the newness wore off, the excavation began. Writing and recording three times a week took me deeper place inside of myself. That’s when I began to ask: Is this going anywhere? Am I going anywhere?
From these questions I feel the emergence of a theme, and perhaps a better methodology. My deepest wish for myself and you, dear reader, is that we foster a deeper appreciation for the humanities as a true form of knowledge creation.
These are the moments that I love most about writing. When the written word acts like a long conversation with a good friend telling you a hard truth about yourself: It’s deep excavation. Each layer I remove, each article I post, asks me to go deeper. Most of the time I don’t know what I am looking for but I keep digging, because I think, the digging itself is the point.
The stream I am looking for, the theme I am beginning to trust — these feel like an unraveling, which is, I think, exactly as it should be.
The poet and philosopher John O’Donohue says it best:
“I would love to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”
Wish me luck. 😊
When My Writing Life Was Born
By Clay Hipp
Leaving the classroom, Entering a sentence
The Writing Desk, Edouard Viullard, 1892
As I was leaving teaching and wondering what was next, I asked myself what else I could “do.”
I play golf, and used to play the guitar, and grew pretty good heirloom tomatoes, and once cultivated a vineyard, and read a lot.
Did those constitute the makings of a proper “retirement”?
Perhaps that is enough for one person to DO, but does it provide anything of use to others?
Then, I thought, that is a lot of stuff—any chance of combining any of it for a meaningful retirement?
Let me think.
What, if anything, have I done but stand in front of a group of students and try to further my worth as a faculty member by writing, presenting, and publishing about an esoteric subject called “the Legal Environment of Business”? The classes were gone and who, but close colleagues, want to hear your most recent musings on “antitrust,” for instance? If I had stayed in practice, there might have been a chance of going to the Supreme Court to “change the very law itself,” but as it was there were only juries for an audience—and another next week.
Quite promising… and eminently exciting.
A dead-end road, a box canyon, a very wide gulf… a comfortable rocking chair?
In the end, having a bit of luck with publishing, it seemed that passing through editorial hell must mean something about my writing ability. My main concern was that there was very little creativity involved, only grammar and coherence and a little persuasive ability in professional papers. Could I really write for a literate audience?
I consulted a few true writers who had written “how-to” books. Some helpful hints, too much “showing” and “examples,” and much of it seemed tied to personal material and traits.
One particularly pointed piece of advice for “beginners” seemed to be “write what you know.” That was appealing and made practical sense. So I began to think about things that I knew from experience. My loving partner (and future “editor”) had encouraged me to share my life story with my kids and future grandkids. Finding no better place to start, I started from the beginning—my childhood. Much of what I was writing at the start (I now know) was extremely narrative, facts upon facts.
As I proceeded, my “story” seemed to be getting smoother, less formal. I began, if nothing else, to feel that it was becoming easier to make the prose “flow.” My thoughts were translating into words and, at the same time, the thinking was happening with less effort. So, I wrote regularly, and the pages began to accumulate. Better yet, I realized that there were stories to tell; small towns have lots of characters.
I realized that I was starting to actually have fun!
Maybe the best part of it all was that in writing about what I know, I was finding out what I did not know, and that I was remembering things that I had forgotten. I know enough from other sources that what I was doing was bringing old memories back to life, retrieving them from lost, unused banks. What a revelation to know that I was somehow bringing things long gone “back to life.”
Recently, it occurred to me that I had not shared much of this document with my boys. The reason, perhaps, was that some of what I had written seemed a bit too personal and revealing. Now, I think that my middle-aged sons can be trusted to receive it for what it is. They certainly know by now that I am not perfect. I make plenty of mistakes and second-guess myself just like everyone else, and by sharing it, I am demonstrating trust and just being human.
In addition, when I read it now, it does not seem too bad!
Lesson to self and to any budding writers: there are many fine things about writing that may not be obvious until one does it. Another: you might just rekindle reasons to return to reading good literature. The most important? You will never know good writing until you read the best. It will inspire and ignite the writer you are capable of becoming.
Just some further incentive.
I had never really considered writing works of fiction. I am, in my oral life, considered to be a good storyteller. That comes, I think, from my years as a teacher and the need to be spontaneous on my feet, and having the need for providing context for in-class pronouncements. I also come from the rural South, with front porch talk and much oral tradition. The thought of “making up” stories seemed unnatural and hard work.
Just to let you know, that can change.
It happened this way for me. For twenty or so years, I was absolutely smitten with a story song written by one of my favorites, John Gorka. I liked it, and the concept behind it, so much that I could not get it out of my mind—I wanted desperately to know where it came from, the inspiration behind it. Ultimately, I decided I would just have to “make it up.”
So, I did.
I pretended that it was from an actual story. I gave it a fictional context and pretended there was an investigative reporter who got wind of a controversial news article and proceeded to follow the story for his readers (you know the type; the story must be of significant human interest).
Well, by the time I wrote it, I had fantasized for years, and it just came rolling out, effortlessly—the easiest writing one could hope for. I had fun, and when it was finished, I needed to share it. Too shy and afraid of its reception, I just put it aside. Finally, I sent it to the person who had written the song, called his agent and asked if the writer might talk with me and, lo and behold, he liked it and we talked over the phone.
That should have been enough for this novice, but “noooo”!
One of the characters refused to go away. She had more story to tell; she was adamant! So, I set about satisfying her thirst to live. I told it, but lo and behold, one of the new characters demanded equal time for HIS story.
Bottom line?
Unbeknownst to me, it had become a novel.
Do not get excited. I got the big head, submitted it to a small, independent publisher, who responded:
“This is to acknowledge receipt of your manuscript. We will review it and let you know within six months of our interest. If you have not heard within that time, assume that it will not meet our needs.”
I heard no more. It has lain in limbo ever since. I decided that I would never let an editor ruin my year again.
I have read too many stories since then about authors who have received many, many such results.
Not for me.
Thank goodness I am not a professional. I will stick to my leisure.
Perhaps, I will choose to serialize the book for you, noble reader, and take a chance with the reviews.
Moral of the story?
Sometimes it takes decades to become qualified for the work that actually matters.
An Underappreciated Treasure
A plea for locals, wanderers, and the weary-hearted to discover the music waiting just up the road
By Clay Hipp
Watson Stage, Merlefest, Wilkesboro Community College, North Carolina
Since I arrived in North Carolina, I have been attending a marvelous musical event called MerleFest.
It happens during the last weekend in April and began in the spring of 1988. It began very small as a celebration of Doc Watson’s son Merle, who died in a tractor accident, on the flatbed of a trailer. It was meant to be a one-year thing, but the musicians who played along with Doc’s neighbors would not let it die, and it has been an annual event ever since. It is now held on the campus of the community college, with thirteen venues spread over the campus for a four-day weekend.
I first attended in 1994 and seldom miss it. Here is my concern. My home in Winston-Salem is less than an hour away. Ever since I fell for it, I have urged, preached, to locals that they must attend.
For a variety of reasons, very few have responded positively to my plea:
Bluegrass? Ugh.
Wilkesboro? Really?
Are there crowds?
What, no alcohol? Etc., etc., ad infinitum.
Too bad.
The very first year I went, I sat with people from Ireland, Seattle, Hudson’s Bay, Canada. They were flabbergasted to learn that so few locals attended.
I was moved to try once more with a more general (and, I hope, accepting) audience.
Here is my pitch:
Last Saturday afternoon, I sat with about a thousand animated people and, over three hours, listened to, in turn:
— a young Irish duo, DUG, (guitar and banjo) who started out “busking” in front of the Burger King in Dublin. About thirty, they write most of their stuff and play Irish traditional as well. To add to their sound, one wears a tambourine around an ankle and the other drums with one foot. Engaging, and funny, and self-effacing. It felt as if we had been transported to a pub.
— a Norwegian ensemble of seven members named Hayde Bluegrass Orchestra, featuring all the usual instruments, a fine female lead, and very fine four-part harmony and mostly original songs. You can catch them on YouTube and “U” should.
— a Swiss brother act called the Kruger Brothers, who immigrated after playing MerleFest in 1997. They now live in Wilkesboro and tour worldwide. Jens plays the finest banjo you will ever hear and Uwe is one of the hottest guitar pickers around (no one else could keep up with Jens). Jens also writes long classical pieces for banjo and string quartet.
Then throw in a cover of a Bob Marley album by a San Francisco band, The Waybacks (and friends), on a hillside stage that feels like a smaller version of Woodstock, with thousands gathered at the open-air stage and on the steep slopes.
Finally, an Americana/roots band named Railroad Earth that hails from New Jersey and features an array of bluegrass instruments, percussion, and full keyboard, and call it a musical afternoon to remember (whether you come from across the world or fifty miles away).
Also one would be remiss to mention Sam Bush (one of the great bluegrass heroes), who played a set later that night as he has every year since MerleFest began (along with several others). He is certainly one of the “treasures” to be discovered and admired.
Who could turn down such a wide diversity in styles to celebrate a Carolina spring?
Do not be that person! Leave your weary selves behind.
Time is all we have—let’s spend it more wisely.
An Anecdote:
I once met a lovely woman from the Mendocino coast who worked in a tasting room of a winery and hosted a bluegrass show on a remote public radio station. When she heard where I was from she asked, “Do you know about MerleFest? I have always wanted to go.” We made tentative plans for her to come and stay with us the next spring. She called a month or so before and, with regret, revealed that she was being treated for cancer and could not come. We agreed to try the next year or the next, but it never happened. One of those great disappointments of life.
Do not put off your dreams.
Great music hath charms. Start your own tradition at MerleFest in the spring.
You will never know until you try it.
A small listening companion for the essay above:
Merlefest Favorites 2026. Click image below to open the full playlist on YouTube.
For Our Better Angels
Books, music, stories, and the art that helps us remember who we are
By Clay Hipp
Salem Cove, Maurice Prendergast, American Painter, 1858 - 1924
I have to say that lately I have been very engaged in my own concerns about us and our country. It might have been therapeutic for a while, but it needs to stop. We need to refocus on each other and our relationships, and on supporting and raising our collective spirits.
In that context, I would like to make a few suggestions about turning to some things that represent our better angels: some reading, music and art, and communing.
First, I have found great solace in reading some very fine literary fiction that I recommend now and for the summer.
I do not wish to demean anyone’s preferences, but these are books that have been particularly engaging and to which I have found a need to return are those which offer style, theme, and psychological complexity. Two recent examples are extremely different in time and place:
-- The Oceans and the Stars: A Sea Story, A War Story, A Love Story by Mark Helprin. The title tells it all. It is contemporary and takes the reader somewhere they might not want to go—the Middle East—and it is about a war. It is a very fine glimpse into the essential nature of global conflict. However, the essential story is about the character of a single man, a naval officer who captains a very unique vessel and must assemble his crew on very short notice in order to embark on a very uncertain engagement. The reader will learn about what military leadership (or any kind) should be—both realistic and inspirational. Each of the three stories is fully developed. The reader will learn much of value from all three. Epic.
-- Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane Grey. From the early part of the twentieth century, a book that some might refer to as just a “Western.” I have known the title for a long time, but I was never particularly drawn to the genre. Sure, I saw movies about Hopalong Cassidy and Roy Rogers, but they were mostly about chase scenes and silly shooting while riding a horse. Great Saturday entertainment at the Strand theater but nothing to take home to Mom.
Somehow, I was reminded of the adventurous title and the famous author and wondered why, avid reader that I was, that I had never checked it out at the library. Perhaps my kind librarian Miss Reba Scott had warned me away. Or perhaps, the fates were saving it until now. Glad that they did. Turns out that Zane Grey was a prolific and very talented prose artist (and on a variety of subjects).
Read this and laugh and cry and wonder at the stories from the wild west (Arizona/Utah). There is of course conflict over land rights, but much more including religious conflict (Mormon and Gentile). Perhaps even more importantly, very fine lessons in character and human psychology. Perhaps the greatest joy comes from Grey’s descriptive portrayal of the vast geography. A revelation.
Second, some favorite music.
-- Appalachian Concerto, the Kruger Brothers. If you are in a Classical, but contemporary, mood, this is just the ticket. One of the brothers, Jens, is one of the finest banjo players going and an accomplished composer. Though he and his brother … (a very good guitar player though not quite the virtuoso as Jens) were invited to Merlefest thirty years ago for their bluegrass skills. Wait a minute you say. Where does the Concerto come from, a cover? No, his very own composition and written for bluegrass trio and a string quartet. We attended the premiere at MerleFest fifteen years ago in front of 1000 people and there was a standing ovation before the last movement started. They have recorded several more of his long pieces since. This concerto will make you cry; it represents our mountains so well.
-- Unentitled, John Gorka. The latest in a long string of albums written and performed by one of the best singer/songwriters for the last forty years. Here, he showcases a very reflective group of songs that demonstrate both his maturity and the times we are living in—so very “listenable.” Treat yourself to someone I would declare to be songwriting “royalty.”
-- Father’s Son, Pierce Pettis. Also a sterling writer/performer for four decades. He can be funny, poignant, a storyteller “par excellence,” who spins beautiful love songs as well. Here he reflects on his long life, his days and nights on the road, and relationships of all kinds. His voice has deepened over time to an almost hoarse, but deeply resonant, baritone. Much like Gorka his live performances are “heart to heart.” They each engage their audiences with a sense of gratitude and thanks for making their chosen lives possible. I cannot help but say “folks my Mama didn’t raise no fool and in terms of vocal music, it don’t get no better than this—regardless of the genre.” Hope it speaks to you.
Some movie recommendations…
I am taking a big chance here. I am decidedly not a movie buff, but I do follow friendly advice (especially from those who know my shortcoming) when someone says, “you really should watch this one.”
I am asking you to consider this in that spirit. It will not hurt my feelings if your reaction is “are you kidding me?!” I understand informed biases. Life is too short.
--Star Trek, the Next Generation, Gene Roddenberry. Captain Jean Luc Picard (played by the distinguished Shakespearean actor Patrick Stewart) is the reincarnation of Captain James Kirk of the earlier version of Star Trek from the 1960’s. While Kirk was more of a swaggering “cowboy,” Picard is an erudite gentleman and also a caring human being with an extremely difficult job. He captains a huge spaceship called the Enterprise whose mission is to find and explore new worlds and “to boldly go where no one has gone before.”
The ship resembles a small city populated by crew and families to perform all the tasks needed to carry out daily life. The heart of the story involves the officers of the command bridge. They are a diverse group of men and women (and an android) whose job is navigation and interaction with populations they encounter. They must work together, follow the captain’s lead, and perform many complex tasks. But the fascinating part is that they are also human beings with all our complicated relational issues.
The story is about our “future history.” We seem to have evolved from our previous warring selves and must follow a “prime directive” in order to avoid interfering in the cultures they encounter. The series lasted eight seasons with the main cast, so we get to know them and their virtues and faults. One who follows it will learn much about ourselves. (Careful, you might get hooked and that would not be a bad thing.)
--Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Maud Montgomery. A film version from 1985. Stunning photography, a sterling cast, and a compelling story of Anne Shirley, a spirited, imaginative orphan mistakenly sent to live with siblings Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert who live and farm on Prince Edward Island. Watch it once and you will almost certainly watch it again. Top notch, not to be missed (the book came out in 1907). You can stream it from this site. Definitely worth the price of admission: https://www.gazebotv.com/products/anne-of-green-gables-complete-collection
--Prime Suspect was a game-changer for the 1990s. Brave, hard-edged, and unrelenting—and I’m talking about Jane Tennison just as much as the show. It was the first TV police investigation I actually believed in—the first that got its hands really dirty. As one of the first senior women, up against the brutal institutional sexism of the contemporary police force, Jane Tennison could easily have come over as too PC to be true, but right from the start she was compellingly flawed as well as admirably ambitious and as kick-ass as they come. Played by one of Britain’s finest actresses, Helen Mirren.
Finally, it would be terribly wrong if I did not highly recommend that you watch a TV classic.
--Jacques and Julia, Cooking at Home. A celebrated, Emmy Award-winning PBS series featuring legendary chefs Julia Child and Jacques Pépin cooking together in a relaxed, unscripted setting. The 22-episode show is praised for its warmth, genuine friendship, and expert culinary techniques, emphasizing classical French techniques for home cooks.
That is the description, but it is so much more. Their interchanges reveal so much more. These are two mature people who demonstrate love and respect for each other while doing it with humor and a bit of feisty (mostly Julia), competitive spirit. Learn to cook but also how to live. They ended each show by looking at the camera and saying: “Bon appétit!” by Julia Child, followed by “And happy cooking!” by Jacques Pépin. Please give it a viewing—as good as it gets.
I realize that offering a list like this is terribly presumptuous. Maybe all I really mean to say is this: when the world feels too loud, I need to remember what is still good.
A fine book. A true song. A story with heart. A table where people laugh, cook, argue a little, and love each other anyway. That is the kind of art, and the kind of communing, I crave right now.
I might just take my own advice and work my way through these again.
I wish for you an inspiring Sunday morning….
Fundamental Re-visted
What we believe without question—and what it costs us
By Clay Hipp
Wanderer Above A Sea of Fog, Caspar David Friedrich, 1818
I am guessing by now that you have gotten a sense of how much I care for words, choosing them as well as possible with a strong sense of precision.
The more I write, I tend to develop a special relationship with particular words. I find that I gravitate towards those that have complex meanings, that are fraught with subtlety, and sometimes even apparent contradictions.
For instance, some suggested synonyms for the title word: basic, essential, primary, elemental, rudimentary, underlying, cardinal, and key.
Is that helpful?
As we shall see, the word is not exactly “exact,” and all those choices are regularly used instead. At first, my feelings about it are positive—but is there a dark side?
As I have “matured,” certain words have taken on more and more importance, both in my writing but also in the much more expansive world of my thinking about a range of what I would call “life issues.”
Fundamental belief is one such example—not in any way meant to be taken as a statement about theology. I have a few friends with whom I have substantial issues with respect to our personal faiths. My approach has continued to evolve from my childhood, growing up in a traditional small town in which everyone was some flavor of Protestant Christianity (there was one Jewish family and one Catholic—they each had to drive 15 miles or so to a place of worship).
I have wandered around many variations on the theme. My current strong, unwavering philosophy is that everyone should be free to choose whatever path to “salvation” they find worthy.
But as you probably know, if you have wrestled with it at all, some very fine folks take the position that their own faith leads to “fundamental” truth, which seems to compel a proactive defense of these beliefs against modernism—and a need to persuade others to adopt it for themselves.
In other words, I respect their freedom to choose—but not their unwillingness to extend the same to others.
The part that offends my sensibility is that one approach is inclusive, and the other exclusive.
So, to my true purpose for writing here.
I have also encountered a form of fundamentalism in my professional teaching life. But here the focus is much more than “professional.” It is about something I have touched on periodically. Now, I will attempt to counter it head-on. I do not do it lightly.
Bluntly, a particular brand of fundamentalism is at the very heart of our current national, democratic, Constitutional dilemma.
The political environment got us here, but this is not about “politics as usual.” Rather, quite literally, we are here because of a fierce brand of economic, financial fundamentalism.
We all probably are familiar with the name Adam Smith. He is known as the father of so-called “free market” economics (if one does the due diligence to study his writings, they will find that today’s idea of the phrase is, in essence, a distillation of a very complex philosophy—he was a moral philosopher first, not an economist).
Along the way, a series of economists took a single idea to heart. To paraphrase:
“Adam Smith's famous phrase about free markets is the ‘invisible hand.’ He used this metaphor to explain how self-interested individuals, by pursuing their own gain, unknowingly promote the overall good of society, efficiently regulating production and resource distribution without government intervention.”
Take a moment to contemplate that.
Though it may appeal to any one of us individually (in this time and place), it is not a fundamental truth. Smith was writing during the eighteenth century in Scotland. At the time, his country was moving away from the feudal system and just beginning to leave farming, evolving into manufacturing and commercialism. The magical phrase was written totally in that context.
Over time, generations of “economists” adopted and taught through this lens. Others rejected it because of their own work and eventually engaged in vigorous debate about its efficacy in building functional economies.
With respect to the “markets” he was referring to, all buyers and sellers were small and lacked market power.
A single economist literally put this free market gospel into play.
Milton Friedman, a professor at the University of Chicago, wrote a piece in the New York Times that took the market by storm—converting business, educators, and the public to this “simple” proclamation.
Here is my summary:
“Milton Friedman’s 1970 essay, The Social Responsibility of Business Is to Increase Its Profits, published in The New York Times Magazine, argued that a corporation's sole responsibility is to maximize shareholder value while adhering to law and ethical custom. He described corporate social responsibility (CSR) as ‘pure and unadulterated socialism’ and argued that managers spending stakeholder money on social causes act as ‘unwitting puppets’ of anti-capitalist forces.”
The following thirty years saw a major move to do away with the regulatory economy created by Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s “New Deal” after World War II.
In 2010, the U.S. Supreme Court issued a ruling that affirmed the idea that corporations were individuals whose rights of “free speech” were protected by the First Amendment—and that money was a form of speech.
Six years later, a presidential election was heavily influenced by unlimited amounts of money that flowed into campaigns.
What does this have to do with fundamentalism?
The tale that I have just told leads me to believe that at least two forms of fundamentalism—probably three—are responsible for our catastrophic and extremely precarious erosion of our Constitutional principles, our democratic republic, and the American experiment that sought independence and freedom from oppression.
Enough already.
What do I see as the fundamentalist forces at play?
Today’s markets were crafted by a single idea that caused a revolutionary shift of managerial emphasis—from responsible care for employees, customer satisfaction, and community involvement—to the sole concern for profit and the bottom line.
“Christian Nationalism” (not to be confused with “patriotism”) insists on belief in a single doctrine of spiritual truth, tending toward “theocracy” to the extent that a political figure might be seen as sent by God.
Extreme egotism can culminate in the belief that one is the center of all power, to the detriment of any care for others.
In other words:
Extreme pursuit of profits led to an imbalance of political power.
Fervent attachment to one religious truth by those who felt oppressed resulted in misplaced allegiance to a flawed leader.
And that “anointment” has created a world in chaos.
Fundamentalism: Turns out it is not “fundamental” at all.
It is, instead, a veil of ignorance behind which to hide.
It is not “thinking.”
It makes “clear” thinking unnecessary—we have one rule to guide every decision.
It has given us “vile” leadership under the guise of a “higher being.”
It has given us “free markets” that have become “conventional wisdom” in such a way that we can no longer listen to alternative ways of governing—or even true “being.”
Economists have been treated as prophets, offering a simple way (the invisible hand of the “market”) for all decision-making—both in our businesses and even in society (and to finance their doctrinal faith).
Nothing truly matters but the ever-evolving “bottom line” of profit and progress.
We truly do worship bigger and bigger piles of money—the love of which is deep and wide—both essential and fundamental.
For those with eyes, let them see—and repent.
Lie prostrate before the Constitution.
All forms of fundamentalism proceed from a common core—that is, to make complex decision-making simpler.
Their strategies are also similar and simple: convince and convert.
Convincing enough people means, for them, that more of us will be on the same page. Converting means that, because of the first goal, simplicity increases—greater conversion lessens the noise from dissenters and troublemakers.
Dissenters are marginalized, labeled a danger to whatever the now-common goal happens to be.
Fundamentalist religion claims a single deity or prophet.
Fundamentalist capitalism claims that a corporation has only one purpose: maximizing and protecting profit for its “owners.”
Those who are not believers will only hinder the effort to convert. Converts must be extreme believers. Any crack in their armor allows doubts to creep in, thereby undermining the ability to make simple decisions—slowing down the process toward accomplishing the “goal.”
Efficiency is hampered by people who ask questions, and (in the process) the effectiveness of our governmental oversight suffers.
After all, that is just me.
What might you say in return?
The Tree of Knowledge
Where knowledge begins and what it asks of us.
By Clay Hipp
Rainbow Tree (Mindanao gum tree), Cécile Gambini, from book—Strange Trees
Do the humanities create “knowledge”?
It’s a question I have been thinking about after encountering a book by Chris Haufe, a philosopher Joanie recently studied in one of her classes.
It is a questions that sits at the center of an ongoing debate about the relationship between the arts and sciences—between what can me measured and what must be experienced.
In thinking about this issue, I have come to a conclusion that feels, at least to me, definitive. Unequivocally, the humanities—and the arts they foster—are not simply a source of knowledge. They are, in many ways, the origin of the search for it.
Or at the very least, the place where that search begins.
In the process of becoming a “writer,” I have found myself reading more, both in quantity and (I hope) in quality (by my own standards).
I have found it has made me read differently.
Let me explain.
I now concentrate on the text, its manner of delivery, and the reasons why the writer may have chosen to write in the first place.
In the process, I have found my writing beginning to “communicate” with the texts. Phrases, whole sentences, and the ideas behind them imprint themselves and insist on being analyzed and contemplated.
Within that process, It made me think again of the question, “How does one become a writer?”
Which brought up a familiar piece of advice: “Write what you know.”
That seems to imply very strongly that one should rely on “knowledge” as the basis for beginning.
But… it may only start the process and mechanics. One may begin to learn whether they have the tools and the intelligence, but the true art of writing—and the continuing inspiration to write—is in the discovery of what you do not know.
Allow me to throw out a few phrases that have recently stuck with me from the world of literature:
“Fast is slow and slow is smooth.”
“Mind is memory.”
A rediscovery:
“Hope springs eternal.”
“There are no words, but there are only words.”
These are not ideas that sprang from scientific “truths.”
They do not explicitly “explain” themselves, and they cannot be “proven.”
They require examination and contemplation to decide whether they are helpful in the process of living well—or understanding what life is all about.
But in this process of thinking about them, are they not useful in the very pondering of what we actually “know”?
Spend a little time rolling them around in your mind.
One comes from a marvelous work of fiction; one from a work about the nature of “consciousness”; another from a very significant work of poetry; and the last from an unknown source.
The essence and idea for each resides in the humanities.
I have the significant feeling that a great writer could weave a masterpiece around these few short phrases—maybe a novel, maybe a philosophical treatise, a love poem, or even (gasp!) a scientific breakthrough.
We could spend a weeklong retreat exploring the very human thoughts and feelings that they bring to mind.
Even I, only just learning to write, might find an essay or two—not that they would “prove” anything.
So where does that leave us… you?
It has inspired me to begin offering you, my readers, some suggestions for groups of books (reading lists) that center around a chosen theme.
I would suggest that they could serve a number of purposes:
– a list that one could simply dive in and out of
– a yearlong voyage of discovery
– or even an in-house book group for shared discussion
The possibilities are endless, and the potential rewards are great.
A Reading List:
Earth, Time, and Discovery
Just allow me to say that I cannot recommend these works more highly.
This collection comes from a group of writers who became acclaimed experts in their fields. They studied, in various ways, what can be called “Earth Science.”
But these works were not written for professional colleagues; rather, they were written to tell the rest of us what they did—and what they have come to “know” through a lifetime of work (rather like memoirs).
Reading almost any seriously created work of literature is a worthy venture.
But my continuing joy in literature is finding books that belong to a stream of discovery.
These books follow the story of how this earth came into existence, how it has changed over the eons, and what its major challenges are today.
The list:
– The Immense Journey — Loren Eiseley
– Braiding Sweetgrass — Robin Wall Kimmerer
– Finding the Mother Tree — Suzanne Simard
– Turning to Stone — Marcia Bjornerud
– The Invention of Nature: Alexander von Humboldt’s New World — Andrea Wulf
If you choose to work through these authors, it may feel as if you have earned a “master’s” degree in natural history.
Footnote
Eiseley — anthropologist turned naturalist (and somewhat “mystical”)
Kimmerer — biologist, naturalist, and advocate for Native ways (member of the Potawatomi people)
Simard — forestry biologist
Bjornerud — geologist
Wulf — historian and science writer
If nothing else, consider reading Eiseley’s small book.
It just might tempt you to go further.
Coda:
I will end where I began.
I believe that the title is evocative and contains the “root” of this debate over where knowledge comes from.
The full title could have ended with “of good and evil”. I chose not to make it biblical.
Yet, is it not sobering to recall that one of our first references in literature that is universally known is that when we become “conscious”, we are told that we are going to have to choose between those two essential concepts? —that knowledge is revealed in the natural world.
I would suggest that it still is.
Is This the End or a New Beginning? The Love That Might Remake Us
On Greene's Sarah Miles, Merton’s epiphany and whether compassion can still bridge our divide
by Clay Hipp
German Love Chest, Ella Josephine Sterling 1935
“When did The Land of the Free
become The Home of the Afraid?
Afraid of the world, afraid of the truth,
afraid of each other.
This ain’t the country my grandfather fought for, but I still see the hate he fought against.
Give rest to the tired, give mercy to the poor. Give warmth to the huddled masses
And I’ll show you freedom.”
All right, am going to give this one more try.
The country we love ……and care for……. no longer exists.
It is gone but not forgotten—it is still a wonderful “idea” to embrace, hold onto.
Just now, it is divided against itself. We are being ripped asunder by two extreme factions who do not even seem to be able to speak to each other. They can only point at each other, blame one another for the shape we are in, and put labels on the other: there are “deplorables” and “elite leftists”. With this approach, nothing will ever get better, only worse. They feed on each other’s dislikes and say that “your” actions prove their point. Neither faction can create a consensus, nor govern us.
We cannot continue to claim different “truths”. Social justice and individual rights are simply two sides of our national “union,” which makes the notion of “equality” a significant challenge. Where does hope for the future lie? In the center, where our basic “values” reside. (Home, family, beauty, care, community, the wisdom of the natural world, a belief in something larger than ourselves.)
As it is, I am afraid that “hate” actually exists in both camps among the most radical elements. Certainly, there are disagreements over preferred “policies,” but I sense very little conversation over those. It is mostly about personal identity which, currently, is the primary basis on which loyalty to political parties is based. Crossing over is nearly possible.
OK, enough analysis.
If my observations are correct, much of what is happening is generated, at its core, by built-up, extremely negative, personal and emotional enmity which always borders on hatefulness.
How can we possibly find, extend, compassion for one another?
Only if there is still a residuum of what is sometimes referred to as “brotherly love”. Is love only about special individuals or within families? Is there a force that is as strong as hate to counterbalance what I have been trying to describe?
Honestly, one should be able to discern that I do not know.
Perhaps a couple of anecdotes will aid our quest (and perhaps give us hope for our future as a, currently “disunited”).
How does “Love” Work? Ponder this:
“In Graham Greene's novel The End of the Affair, the narrator, Maurice Bendrix, describes Sarah Miles as having a distinctive way of interacting with others, noting her 'way of touching people with her hands, as though she loved them"
This habitual gesture is one of the first things Bendrix notices about Sarah, reflecting a natural capacity for warmth, even before the deeper, more spiritual shifts in her character occur.
Throughout the novel, Sarah's capacity for love transforms from a focused, passionate, and adulterous love for Bendrix into a broader, almost saintly love that extends to others.”
So, is this a quality that exists in some humans? Is it hidden somewhere in all of us? Can we, by extending it, bring it forth?
Can it be planted in a way that it will grow into a part of the world order?
Another:
“This famous experience is known as the "Louisville epiphany" or the "Fourth and Walnut epiphany," and is described by Trappist monk Thomas Merton in his book Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander.
On March 18, 1958, while on errands in downtown Louisville, Kentucky, at the corner of Fourth Street and Walnut Street (now Muhammad Ali Blvd), Merton was suddenly struck by a profound sense of connection to the crowded city streets.
Merton felt an overwhelming sense of love for the strangers around him, feeling a deep, inescapable connection to them.
He described this as waking from a "dream of separateness," letting go of a "spurious self-isolation" that he had previously maintained through his monastic life.
Merton felt he could see the inner beauty of the people, expressing that if they realized their true nature, it would eliminate war, hatred, and greed.
This moment marked a pivotal shift for Merton, transforming him from a "world-denying" monk to a contemplative who embraced the world, recognizing God in the midst of everyday life.” [I should add that Merton was hard at work attempting to blend his Christian beliefs with those of Eastern religions such as Buddhism. He was, in fact, at a conference in Thailand when he suffered an accidental death. (He was only 53.) While Merton was not interested in what these traditions had to offer as doctrines and institutions, he was interested in what each said of the depth of human experience.]
What are we to make of this? Does it suggest any answers to my questions above? I am encouraged by these two stories that perhaps we can be better, do better. Is love simply there waiting to emerge and change us?
I find myself depending on that “truth” to encourage all of us to seek a way to bridge the huge gap that divides us.
Listen to a very wise songwriter:
It's really hard to hate anyone
When you know what they've lived through
Findin' out that we occupy
Somebody else's opposin' side
On the banks of some great divide
Two versions of a dream
Countless revisions of history
Tryin' to tell us the future
I wanna call off the cavalry
Declare no winners or losers
And forgive our shared mistakes
You can pick the time and place
I wanna sit with my enemies
And say "we should have done this sooner"
While I look them in the face
Maybe that will crack the case
-Taylor Goldsmith (Dawes)
If we truly desire to rebuild our democratic ideal, we could do worse than to listen to these words of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
“Let us now and here highly resolve to resume the country’s interrupted march along the path of real progress, of real justice, of real equality for all of our citizens, great and small,” New York governor Franklin Delano Roosevelt said to the delegates at the Democratic National Convention in 1932 as American democracy struggled to resist fascism.
“Out of every crisis, every tribulation, every disaster, mankind rises with some share of greater knowledge, of higher decency, of purer purpose,” FDR said. “Today we shall have come through a period of loose thinking, descending morals, an era of selfishness, among individual men and women and among Nations…. Let us be frank in acknowledgment of the truth that many amongst us have made obeisance to Mammon, that the profits of speculation, the easy road without toil, have lured us from the old barricades. To return to higher standards, we must abandon the false prophets and seek new leaders of our own choosing.”
“I pledge you, I pledge myself, to a new deal for the American people,” FDR concluded. “Let us all here assembled constitute ourselves prophets of a new order of competence and of courage. This is more than a political campaign; it is a call to arms. Give me your help, not to win votes alone, but to win in this crusade to restore America to its own people.”
Let those who have ears listen hard, and deeply, and take these ideas “to heart”. Begin to care again.
“We are here to love each other, that is all.” (Zuly)
A Meditation: As Far As the Eye Can See
Looking back across the centuries: what the “great guide” taught me about the liminal space between knowing and unknowing
By Clay Hipp
Imagine that you have camped under the stars on the pinnacle of a small mountain that rises from the relatively level plains of the Carolina Piedmont.
Because it is at the very end of an ancient mountain range, there is a 360-degree view of the Blue Ridge to the northwest, and the farms that surround it, and its sister peaks to the east.
Waking early, there is complete darkness…..
As the sky begins to lighten, the blue hour begins—a period that is neither dark nor light—and ends with the rising of the orange orb at the eastern horizon.
Almost suddenly, the whole sky is ablaze with red.
If one looks to the west, you have a view to the peaks of the range that stretches from north Georgia to the White Mountains of northern Maine.
The phenomenon is “as far as the eye can see”, in this case, around fifty miles.
The native name for this big hill translates as “the Great Guide.”
The people who were here well before our appearance used it as a landmark for traversing the many trails they followed for trade and hunting and fishing and interacting with similar people.
If one tends to be introspective, the new day symbolizes the fact that yesterday is gone but not forgotten, and wonders what this day might bring.
More deeply, they might see the past as it slides away (and the lessons learned), and the promise of a future that is completely in their hands to create.
This is the gift that a true encounter with what our natural world can provide.
One might also say, let this moment “guide” me as a map for my very own precious life.
Now imagine looking due east along the spine of the rest of the range as it seeks to join the Blue Ridge in Virginia.
Valleys, fields, and forests on both sides.
If one looks carefully, they might get glimpses of rustic shelters of wood and grass and animal skins, sometimes set against the slopes of granite cliffs, and perhaps caves, where the native people lived and worked.
One might be able to trace trails along the forests and fields.
We know they were there because when farmers plow their fields today, they often unearth beautiful arrow points of native quartz.
The experts who made them had a purpose, but they often show signs of artisanship as well.
Growing up, I knew a man who had a huge collection.
He displayed them on canvases and hung them around his house.
As a group, they were impressive.
He asked that I look at and hold them.
He had talked with experts who claimed that they could see the similarities, but also distinguishing styles.
They speculated that each “artist” expressed them differently.
A thing that is useful could also be beautiful, both at the same time.
Perhaps this reveals much.
Fast forward to the 18th century.
From the same vantage point, you might see streams of wagons and animals and people traveling paths and dirt tracks from north to south along what became known as the Great Wagon Road, seeking new “opportunities.”
They would settle in the Appalachians and the Piedmont of the Carolinas and north Georgia (my Scots-Irish and German ancestors).
In the early 21st century, one might gaze due east across the interstate, and see a small triangular field against a group of hardwoods and notice the orderliness of row after row of what looked like fences covered with vegetation.
Grapevines—mine.
If one spent a few days helping out, he or she might observe wild turkeys, groundhogs, does and fawns, and hear overhead the beating of wings and the cries of red-tailed hawks and the occasional pileated woodpecker (which are the size of crows and the largest since the extinction of ivory bills in the swamps of Louisiana).
On the vines themselves, “helpful” praying mantises and ladybug beetles (they both eat aphids).
Before my vineyard came along, the red clay and quartz soil grew what the farmer next door called the “best tobacco” he ever harvested.
That little mountain has seen a lot.
Can you see why Jomeokee is a sacred place for me?
Late in the afternoon (of which I spent many), if one watched the sun descend, it appeared to be making a landing directly on the peak, “a spaceship,” one might say.
It hurts me to know that moments such as these have so little value to many.
As a matter of fact, perhaps they might even be considered a “waste of time.”
Just think of what one might actually “do” with their precious time!
Jens Kruger has given us a little tune that speaks directly to this thought, which he calls “Beautiful Nothing.”
On first listen, it seems simple enough.
On the second or third, you notice something that you had only noted but wondered about—about two-thirds of the way through, there is a brief pause of perhaps ten seconds.
Is it over?
Then the music returns…just where it had stopped.
What moved the composer to do this?
More listening did not provide a clear answer.
Other composers have been known to intentionally “surprise” their audiences (Joseph Haydn is best known for this in his Symphony No. 94 in G Major, composed in 1791, commonly nicknamed the “Surprise Symphony”).
Was this Kruger’s idea?
I have come to believe, knowing him slightly, that it was the true message, hidden in the title.
The pause was the equivalent of the poet’s method of leaving something “unsaid,” which actually makes verse so different from narrative prose.
We are given the gift of reading between the lines, reflecting on the theme, rather than being “told” everything.
The rational portion of our brains wishes to explain everything; the creative mind is aware of “not knowing” and asks questions rather than giving answers.
In other “words,” my truth of the composition is that silence—pause—allows one to search for meaning and is the place where “beautiful nothings” reside—yours and mine.
I consider those few minutes as the sun sets behind the pinnacle as a “beautiful nothing” moment, to be experienced with new eyes and ears.
What more does one truly need?
How has appreciation of the natural gifts from the earth fallen so far down the scale?
Say what you will, “beauty” has its own throne in the earthly kingdom.
Our truest “knowledge” arises from and teaches us all the natural wisdom we need.
Everything else is “artificial.”
I mentioned earlier the native name “Jomeokee” (JO-mee-oh-kee) means “great guide” and was translated to “Pilot” in English by settlers.
I am moved by thoughts of our native brothers and sisters as they still occupy the fields and forests around the base of the little mountain.
I can also imagine my Scots-Irish and German ancestors as they encountered the trails and blessings of still wild and mysterious country, looking at the road ahead and being comforted to be shown the way toward what they hoped would be their special “promised land.”
Would that we all should read and learn from the history and stories of those who came before and helped form the beginnings of our American (native and immigrant) Dream.
And in the process, let it guide you towards your own a better place to be…
A Poetic Wish
The beginning of each day is neither red nor blue.
It is, however, as we choose to see it.
Being “betwixt” and between, we sometimes feel lost…
Is there a middle ground
Where we might meet as equals
And speak as brothers and sisters
And blend our beings into new forms
Of togetherness…?
Despite the fact that it seems, at first, a “purple haze”
That blurs our vision, it can yet reveal truth
Rather than allow conflict to remain amongst us
Is a new dawn possible…and
Who will work to make it so?
We need to go as far as the mind can travel…
—E. Clayton Hipp, 4/2/2026, at home
Deep Purple
Finding Our Way Back To the Middle Ground: A Call for Unity
by Clay Hipp
Ed Mell, 'Veils of Time,' 12x30, oil on linen, 2006.
Let me just say it, I am tired of pretending. Tired of careful words, measured phrases, tactical silences.
I am afraid—deeply, deeply afraid—and I suspect you are too.
Not alone or in private moments, but a creeping permeating fear that we are watching something slip away. Something we cannot name but desparetly need to hold onto.
It seems that our collective consciousness senses that this moment in time is something different. We may be on the verge of losing it all.
And yet, we cannot allow ourselves to be paralyzed by despair. There is a way to toward a different reality. But it must be pursued vigorously by all of us who “believe” in that ephemeral idea/dream that led us to this place and time.
We must each end the talk. The rhetoric. The finger-pointing.
We must look deeply inside and begin to listen—to voices that are wiser, less driven by ego, more attentive to something larger than ourselves.
In short…..the common good.
This is hard to think about. Hard to hear. Almost too much to bear.
So, begin close to home. Embrace your friends and family. Lift each other up.
And then…..the harder part.
Consider those for whom you have very little affinity.
Taylor Goldsmith’s poignant song “Crack the Case”, about navigating broken relationships, is especially relevant here:
“I wanna sit with my enemies
And say—we should have done this sooner
While I look them in the face
Findin’ out that we occupy
Somebody else’s opposin’ side
On the banks of some great divide
Two versions of a dream
I wanna call off the cavalry
Declare no winners or losers
And forgive our shared mistakes”
Look, I am aware that this might seem platitudinous, pretentious, presumptuous. I can do nothing but say to you that this is not about me. It is about us and the country we call home—perhaps still love.
I, too, want all this to pass.
To wake up and find it was only a bad dream. Unfortunately, it is too very real to ignore. If we do not all wake up now and act, however imperfectly—the fear of which we speak might become firmly grounded.
My point?
One that I mentioned in my last post, but one that I perhaps did not fully honor:
There is, in this country, still a vast middle ground.
Sadly, we seem to have wanted it from two very different perspectives. As the two extreme ends of the spectrum fought it out, the rest of us became too tired to pay this “internecine war” any attention.
But, in the process, we also became complacent and simply allowed them to scream and shout so loudly that the good still left in us withered while we looked after our own little lives, removed ourselves from the chaos.
“As the extremes have grown louder, the rest of us have grown quieter. ”
Now, we are left with letting what used to be simply “politics as usual” become nothing but noise about seeing who can throw the most money at the other side.
Consequently, that has become the true battleground. We are bombarded constantly by those who tell us that they will lose if we do not shell out. It often seems like ideas are secondary and integrity is optional. Power and winning seem to be the only prize.
Perhaps there is another way—not through force, but through ideas. Integrity and sincerity that is shared.
And yet, there is something even deeper we must face:
We may have lost our common “culture” —the very ground on which our mutual understanding once stood.
When I was growing up, we talked to each other about music and books and TV shows that we shared because there were only three networks—three.
We talked about Matt Dillion and Miss Kitty. We hummed the same jingles. We each had our own favorite six o’clock news anchor and while each had somewhat different points of view—they were thoughtful about how they delivered them.
They earned our trust because they seemed to care about the truth, not just ratings.
Most importantly, we “listened” to each broadcast and to each other—around the water cooler at work and on our front porches after dinner. We all seemed to disagree about the same things, had similar ways to talk about it and a basic set of facts.
Today, our modern culture has moved us far away from this kind of shared experience. You watch your news feed. I watch mine. An algorithm decides what you see. We are not just disagreeing, we are living entirely different realities.
Just as pertinent were our chosen “places of worship.” Each—Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, Church of God, Lutherans, and more—approached matters of faith differently, but I cannot recall a single argument about the truth or any attempt to “convert.”
I grew up in a household where my parents were Baptist and Methodist. I became neither. (Okay, there were groups who would knock on the front door and hand out their pamphlets.)
We were all different, yet, somehow together.
Coke or Pepsi. Chevy or Ford. Tiger or Gamecocks. We were mill people and townies, Democrats and Republicans, and we did not always speak the same language.
But we were Americans, proud of our shared heritage, and serious about state and federal “policies” with which we disagreed.
What I think changed: we no longer gathered.
We retreated to our own corners of the world, seeking the comfort of like-minded podcasts, curated social media feeds and self-selected communities. The echo chambers started to take over.
In the midst of all this noise - we have lost something vital. The uncomfortable necessity of encountering people different from ourselves. Votes in the legislatures were bipartisan compromises. We disagreed, sometimes strongly. But we we all shared something underneath it all: A sense of belonging, a sense of place and—most crucially—a willingness to meet in the middle because we had to.
We lived next to each other. We worked next to each other. We didn’t have the luxury of alienation.
Please, understand—this is not nostalgia. I am not suggesting we go backward. I am talking about something deeper: the very essence of democracy. It requires differing views and a shared commitment. Not commitment to being right, but a commitment about what matters.
We have lost that—and we need to find it again.
Deep Purple Coalition
I am not indulging in wordplay.
“Purple”—
as in not red or blue.
“Deep”—
as in thoughtful and committed.
“Coalition”—
as in joined together.
I believe that there is a vast population of people who exist in this space.
They are:
Uncommitted, unrepresented and largely unheard. Many are as uneasy and perhaps even frightened (as am I). Consequently, they have not yet found a common voice and so, they remain silent.
But what if a galvanizing voice began to emerge? What if it was formed by —encouragement, recognition and through one another? Mutual encouragement from those who share their values.
I firmly believe that if there is enough evidence of the existence of this emerging “voice,” and that someone with personality, drive and hope will emerge to speak on our behalf. We have been silent much too long. This is not about winning, this is about whether or not we are willing to show up. I fear we do not, we risk losing something far greater.
So I beg you, Let’s begin this work now.
Here is what being part of the Deep Purple Coalition means:
Have conversations with your friends, family, and receptive acquaintances. Not arguments—conversations. Ask them what they're afraid of. Listen to their answer without trying to "win."
Look for those who are tired of the extremes. They're everywhere— you'll recognize them by their weariness with partisanship and their hunger for something more.
Tell them about the middle ground. About purple. About this idea—that there are millions of us who are tired of partisanship. They hunger for something more, like the ideas I have mentioned. Perhaps, forward this article, or start a small group. Anything we can do to create spaces where nuance is allowed are the kind of spaces where I see our ideas begin to thrive.
Document the emergence. When you see evidence of the coalition growing— share it. Post about it. Write about it. We need evidence that this "voice" exists — this evidence will be the force that galvanizes this movement.
How can you join?
Well, there isn’t a membership card, and we don’t have any t-shirts or a leader (yet). It only means that:
You refuse to accept that America is only red or blue
You are willing to have difficult conversations with people who see things differently.
You believe in the common good, not just personal victory
You are ready to listen, especially when it is hard
The thought of our voices rising, gathering together, gives me hope for a kind of momentum that might take shape, even as early as this fall.
Who is with me?
Coda:
Numerous books and articles show an emerging theme: that if we are to sustain ourselves as a people who can still look after one another, we must recover something deeper—our shared cultural values. For me that means that we must move toward an American “renaissance”.
We must once again care—and give our attention— to all the arts:
Music. Serious literature. Time at the table with family and friends. Spending time outdoors. Sharing with each other the things things we hold dear, and in matters of faith (in the broadest understanding of the word). We are terribly fragmented…..yet we are the only ones who can put ourselves back together. Our “rational” brains are not enough. They have given us our obsession with success and growth and wealth.
And yes, I have hope.
I’m thankful to have young friends who see things differently. They need our support and approval—and a sense that their views are worthy of our attention. That we recognize their feeling of helplessness. We, by and large, are not leading…
Let’s spread the word, and perhaps it will take root.
This all feels so helpless so what can it hurt to try?
Giant oaks from little acorns grow…
