Holding Up the Sky
It’s autumn in Maine. The neighbor’s sugar maple outside my kitchen window blushes orange and pink, like a shy maiden preparing to bare her limbs for the first time; a few leaves fall onto a foam of wild purple asters. A garden spider bigger than my thumb has woven a web in a sheltered spot between the side of my house and the propane tanks, which are covered with a little lean-to shed roof, outside my office window. I’m dead-heading some varieties of sunflowers, leaving the buds further down the stalk for a second flowering, and letting others stand for the birds, which flock to the tall stems and bald seed heads to eat. I put away my Keen sandals for the winter, along with my tank tops and light-colored shorts.
I read a lot on Substack. I get most of my news here, discover new writers and artists, and follow several newsletters with enormous pleasure. I subscribe, unsubscribe, like, comment, recommend, and sometimes pay. I also lurk. Several of the writers I follow ask interesting questions,
for one. I save those in my inbox, but by the time I have a minute to address them so many other people have responded (he has a big following, deservedly so), I feel intimidated and that late-to-the-party feeling stops me from answering. I don’t want to take the time to read the whole conversation and I tell myself I haven’t anything to add that hasn’t already been said. I feel bad about that, as though I’ve let someone down. Who? Simon K. or myself? I’m not sure.The best case is when a question or content speaks so clearly to my heart I impulsively comment or respond immediately. This has happened recently with a post from
:
At this very moment his last remark in a conversation between us is sitting in my inbox. Weeks have passed. I look at it every day, because in the conversation I wrote I was thinking about writing a post addressing a feeling he, along with many of us, has expressed. That was true, but it’s taken me some time to come back around to it, and I’m slightly shamefaced. It’s not that I think Alexander will care, really, it’s that I expect more of myself.
Our world, our species and so many countless others, are in trouble. Are we doing enough? Does our particular art expressing an hour’s gratitude, reverence, awe, presence, or anguish matter? Can one person make any kind of a positive difference in the face of such catastrophic change, so much violence, hatred, indifference, and greed?
When we miss posting on our regular schedule, we apologize. When we put up paywalls, we often explain and justify, as though we’re doing something bad. When we don’t respond to comments in a “timely” fashion, say thank you, follow and recommend back, or unsubscribe, we’re ashamed.
At the same time, as we go about our days, we’re battered with grief, loss, catastrophic weather, fear, and diminishing numbers of beloved forms of life around us. We are mindful people. We notice. We care about the changing face of nature and the natural world.
And yet we have lives to live, errands to run, business to take care of, bills to pay, responsibilities to our families and communities, private health concerns and worries. Always so much to do, so much noise, so much pressure to go faster, do more, be better.
When Alexander Crow and I exchanged this last set of comments, I was reminded of an old oral tale I used to tell in another life, in another place. It comes from Peace Tales: World Folktales to Talk About by Margaret Read MacDonald. Understand, oral tales are not read aloud or memorized word for word, but welcomed into our souls and hearts because we love them, and retold in our own words of the moment. This is necessarily an exact transcript from the book because I can’t function as an oral storyteller in written words.
Holding Up the Sky (a tale from China)
One day an elephant saw a hummingbird lying flat on its back on the ground. The bird’s tiny feet were raised up into the air.
“What on earth are you doing, Hummingbird?” asked the elephant.
The hummingbird replied, “I have heard that the sky might fall today. If that should happen, I am ready to do my bit in holding it up.”
The elephant laughed and mocked the tiny bird. “Do you think THOSE little feet could hold up the SKY?”
“Not alone,” admitted the hummingbird. “But each must do what he can. And this is what I can do.”
I’ve told this story in front of audiences of all ages, from children to elders in nursing homes and Alzheimer’s units. It’s so simple and so profound. The dignity of the little hummingbird brings tears to my eyes every time I read it or tell it.
We who write, who create art, who garden, who love and notice and observe, we who reach out in the dark, groping, hoping another hand will brush ours, we are holding up the sky. Many of us do it for little or no money. We do it with humility and hope. We don’t do what we do because we feel important, or powerful, or heroic. We don’t do it for gain or fame. We do it because we can, because we must, because it’s who we are.
I believe, I must believe our little feet, our art tools, our words and stories and pictures and hearts and imaginations are enough. Enough for ourselves, enough for each other, enough for the world. Because, as Alexander Crow says, it’s the collective that matters, the communities, large and small: Alexander M. Crow and
in France, in his art gallery is Wales, on the west coast of the United States, and in the U.K., Simon K. Jones, and so many others. So many others.We are not perfect. We’re not always available. We’re not always timely. We’re not always inspired. We’re not always well. We’re not always cheerful. We’re people, and sometimes we’re people crouching under what feels like a falling sky. We can’t hold it up by ourselves. I often feel as though I should, but that’s the worst kind of self-importance. We can only do what we can do, the best we can do whatever we’re doing: taking a walk, playing with a child, creating, watching, weeping, thinking, praying, fearing, laughing.
On Substack I’m reminded it’s not up to me to hold up the sky by myself. I’m not that important or powerful (thank goodness). Whether I’m posting, reading, commenting, lurking, liking, or simply dealing with my own life, I’m comforted by you. No matter what you’re up to, no matter whether I decide to become a paid subscriber or regretfully unsubscribe because my own time and energy are limited, just as yours are, I know you’re doing your best to hold up the sky, along with me. I don’t notice if you miss a week, or many weeks. I’m glad to see you when you can show up. I’m glad to hear your smiling stories about how ridiculous life can be (talking to you,
!) I love your questions, your struggles, your reverence for your various places, your words, your pictures and art. I love your doubts and your thoughtfulness, news of your triumphs and growth, news of your setbacks and obstacles, stories about what made you happy or made you laugh. Or made you weep.
Probably the sky will not fall. As Alexander Crow points out, it’s important to consider time on a geologic scale rather than from our own brief perspective of a human life. We are, after all, not the most important life on this planet, in spite of how some people behave and what they believe. Maybe our art won’t survive. Maybe our words won’t last long enough to inspire those who come after us. We don’t know. I believe we do, however, need to hold up civility. We need to hold up respect and tolerance and gratitude. We need to hold up the unimaginable power of creativity, of healthy community. We need to hold on to awe, humor, and joy.
And hope, the last thing that came out of the box Pandora opened.
We need to reach out our hands, share whatever it is we can do, and hold up each other, along with the astonishing forms of life around us on this lovely planet.
And we are.
Thank you, David. That's a great compliment, coming from someone whose work I admire. Your love for your place is so clear to me via your photographs and words.
It’s dark and wet outside, and this has let the light through, thank you.