Fruitfulness, but no novocain

I've never been so conscious of place and the effect it has on us--on our minds and spirits--than when living in Saskatchewan. In Chicago, the endless concrete and steel and business and strung-out bustle got to me, and although I worked hard too, it was hard to unwind at night and sleep; I'd lie awake, needing to sleep, but I wouldn't be able to untwist that uptight thing in my gut. In Edinburgh, the bustle of the city never touched me; I was too taken with the grandeur and stateliness of the buildings, and even more with its parks; sleep came easily after hiking in the deep, wild green and soaring complex rocks of Holyrood Park. What a change Saskatchewan was! Nothing to hide behind beneath the gigantic sky; nothing to shield you from the wind that never stops; hardly anything to look at, except the unbroken, uncluttered horizon itself. I'm thankful for the emptiness of Saskatchewan: it toughens you up. But there is little here to shield you from the sun that burns the top of your head in summer and the biting wind and crystal flint stars at night in winter. When you hurt in Saskatchewan, it's like every nerve ending opens up to receive that pain; but your labor is very satisfying too, and it's wonderful to see the miracle of things growing here. The winter is so long and so deep that I spend half the year secretly believing nothing can grow here: but every May, we get a hard rain and green shoots out everywhere.

I felt numb continually in Chicago, but very much alive in Edinburgh; I feel alive in Saskatchewan too, but in a much different way. There was a lush opulence to the beauty in Edinburgh; here, the spare beauty here makes you thankful for every bit of it, and the massive empty horizon can't help but make you feel your own smallness. Saskatchewan makes you work for every inch of progress; it is satisfying, but I never work effortlessly here. I remember going out to California several years ago and feeling distinctly uncomfortable: the easy, pleasant warmth, the wealth, the easiness of the place was seductive. I started to relax, to feel like anything was possible, to feel like I was really a cool person. Although it was totally irrational, I resisted it: I wanted to get back to Saskatchewan, to feel alive and hurting in satisfying work in every nerve ending. There was no reason for me to feel this way, but the sense of seductive comfort in California was almost choking to me. Just my own weirdness, I guess.

Mark 4.26-29 is more meaningful to me than ever. I'm working on some articles now that the semester is over, and wondering all the while if it is worth it: who will ever read them? And if anyone does, what difference will it make? Articles written in the '70s are already out of date; the questions scholars are asking have already changed. So what can I expect of my own writing? But things grow here in Saskatchewan--in fact, a lot grows here. "In the morning sow your seed, and at evening don't withhold your hand, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good." (Ecc 11.6)