I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loaf with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, Song of Myself (5)
One of the lingering impressions of the wine country in France I carried home is of the peacefulness of the cultivated fields. Especially in early mornings. Alone I walked the dust and gravel paths at the perimeters of the many small and neatly tended vineyards in Champagne. The hour was not exactly quiet, but within, I felt quiet. And I found myself listening.
First there was the riotous joy of full-throated birdsong. Then there was the sound of the light breeze, ruffling its way down the neat rows of vines. The fields slept, the workday not yet begun. I looked at the growing vines. Each gnarled root dark and whorled with age, the young vines rising, unfurling along the trellised lines in a lattice of interlinking green bowers. I thought about the patient work that is a vineyard. Each vine hand-tended throughout the years. Its well-being shepherded through drought, or a too-cool spring or late hail storm. The hands of the vigneron testing vines and nipping suckers or ill-formed leaves, always encouraging the root to pump its life force into the strongest vines and ripen a bounty of grapes.
It is slow work in the fields. A worker may sit with pruning tools on his stool in the sun and work a single long row for an hour, or perhaps half a day, the time it takes to do the work thoroughly and perfectly. There is no rush with wine.
One morning I noticed there was evidence of blackened earth at the base of the low stone wall that bordered the fields, and nearby piles of loose straw, eight to fifteen feet apart. I learned there had been an unexpected May frost and fires were lit in the night from the straw along the stone walls, the smoke furling along the rows, its warmth protecting the young vines. I thought about the truth of nurturing any growing thing. It is a partnership, an understanding, and a rhythm. The process cannot be rushed, each task must suit its need; born of everything unpredictable about life itself. When we nurture a thing we take responsibility for it. We must give nature space and accept the variability of what lies ahead. It may be a season of sun and perfect rain. It may be a season throttled in the soil, or by a killing frost, a blight. But still we cultivate, we tend, we are patient. We hope.
I was thinking of Whitman this morning on my walk through the green sunlit neighborhoods. About the whisper of the soul and how it frequently speaks to us in the quiet, in the ambient lull, the pause. And that we must listen. As our hands tend the vines of our daily tasks perhaps we can slow our hours down, give the soul a space to speak in. Cultivate ourselves.