Sunday Letter, Podcast
J.S. Legg
To see the good

Father of all! in every age, 
In every clime adored, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! 

Thou great First Cause, least understood, 
Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that thou art good, 
And that myself am blind; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 
To see the good from ill; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 
Left free the human will: 

What conscience dictates to be done, 
Or warns me not to do, 
This, teach me more than hell to shun, 
That, more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives 
Let me not cast away; 
For God is paid when man receives, 
To enjoy is to obey.

—Alexander Pope, from “The Universal Prayer”

To see the good
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
glorious morning

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.
    Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
    Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

—Wm. Shakespeare, Sonnet 33

glorious morning
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
till time and times are done

I went out to the hazel wood, 
Because a fire was in my head, 
And cut and peeled a hazel wand, 
And hooked a berry to a thread; 
And when white moths were on the wing, 
And moth-like stars were flickering out, 
I dropped the berry in a stream 
And caught a little silver trout. 

When I had laid it on the floor 
I went to blow the fire a-flame, 
But something rustled on the floor, 
And some one called me by my name: 
It had become a glimmering girl 
With apple blossom in her hair 
Who called me by my name and ran 
And faded through the brightening air. 

Though I am old with wandering 
Through hollow lads and hilly lands. 
I will find out where she has gone, 
And kiss her lips and take her hands; 
And walk among long dappled grass, 
And pluck till time and times are done 
The silver apples of the moon, 
The golden apples of the sun.

—William Butler Yeats, “The Song of Wandering Aengus”

***

till time and times are done
Sunday Letter, Podcast
J.S. Legg
Listening

’T is you that are the music, not your song.
  The song is but a door which, opening wide,
  Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong
Sing but of you. Throughout your whole life long
  Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
  This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
  The song of earth has many different chords;
Ocean has many moods and many tones
  Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
  Autumn alone can ripen. So is this
  One music with a thousand cadences. 

—Amy Lowell, “Listening”

***

Once upon a time, way back in the 1990s, I studied journalism and media, and the famous saying of Marshall McLuhan, that “the medium is the message,” which I didn't entirely comprehend at the time, has since proved to be, in my view, an immensely important, fundamental truth, especially as it concerns young, developing human beings. 

In other words, when considering the impact of media, the primary influence is not the "content" so much as the means of communication, be it a book, a radio program, television, film, or . . . the internet, which, in a way, combines, or mimics, all previously-known media in a new form.
 

(Around here, you may have guessed, we quite like books, the best and most durable of mediums, of which we have several new, or new-again, featured this week.)
 

With McLuhan in mind, I have been somewhat ambivalent about “broadcasting” human voices over the internet—call it a podcast—and thus entering even more deeply into a relationship with an increasingly ubiquitous medium that seems to desire an ever-more complete integration with human consciousness. . . .

However, always aiming for a balanced view of things, and as people here and there continued to suggest that we do something along these lines, I considered the possibility, aware also of the more positive aspects of the medium, the reality of its current presence in the cultural sphere, and the need for its ultimate redemption. Eventually, with the help of a trusted producer-collaborator, I decided to do it; to make a podcasted audio “show,” but based on certain self-imposed conditions and intentions: 

  1. in-person human conversations only (no “zoom” calls; conversants meet face-to-face)

  2. audio only, and of the highest quality, given our recording circumstances (at our offices, not a studio)

  3. we “wing it”: any questions or prompts on my part, are born out of a genuine human interest in my "guest" and what they know, feel, or believe to be true (no pre-conceived formulae or agendas, ideally)

We call it “Aleatory Encounters,” even though, just as Mr. Dylan sings, “I don’t gamble with cards and I don’t shoot no dice.”

You can expect a new episode every three weeks for the rest of the year.

This first episode, the human-machine interface w/ Joe Allen, appropriately enough, deals quite directly with these and many more questions, challenges, and possibilities of our human-technological age. Let me know what you think.

Thanks for reading, always, and this time, if you like, thanks for listening. 

Keep in touch, John-Scott

Listening
Sunday Letter, Collected Works, New Books
J.S. Legg
more than books

He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!

—Emily Dickinson, " He ate and drank the precious words (1587)"

more than books

Biodynamics

,

Behold this compost!

,

Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person—Yet behold!
The grass covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs,
The new-born of animals appear—the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk;
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.

— Walt Whitman, from “This Compost!” (Leaves of Grass, 1867 edition)

***

Wherever you are on earth, it’s not too late to think about growing a garden,
and it’s never too late to read about it . . .

***

“With regard to human life, this emancipation from the cosmos is almost total. It is less so for animals, and the plants are, to a great extent, still embedded in and dependent on what is occurring in their earthly surroundings. That is why it is impossible to understand plant life without taking into account the fact that everything on Earth is actually only a reflection of what is taking place in the cosmos. This fact is hidden with human beings, because we have emancipated ourselves; we carry only the inner rhythms within us. The plants, however, are still very much a reflection of the cosmos.”

— Rudolf Steiner, Agriculture, Lecture 1

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