Historians on the Run

 

Historians on the Run

     A famous Canadian journalist once described his vocation as being “An Historian on the Run”.   This reference alludes to the fact that publication deadlines prevent him from constructing a complete and meaningful narrative of the events he is observing.  It is the role of the historians, with the luxury of time, to assess the implications and significance of the journalist’s observations.  The journalist seeks to answer the questions “who? what?, where?, and when?”.  It is generally left to others to articulate the answer to the question “Why?”.  Both time and reflection are required before one can begin to articulate a true and satisfying description of what has been observed and experienced.

    The discipline of intentional thoughtful contemplation of what we observe is described by Frederick Buechner in his memoir “Now and Then”

     “…Listen to your life.  See it for the fathomless mystery it is.  In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”

     The hours I spend cycling alone give me an opportunity to discern a cohesive narrative of my conversations and observations on this journey.  The time spent in solitude, accompanied by a slightly elevated heart rate, allows me to make some sense of the zeitgeist (definition: the defining spirit or mood of a particular period of history as shown by the ideas and beliefs of the time).

 

     Among the things I have observed is a longing for meaningful human contact.  I have discovered an almost universal desire for people to express the longing of their hearts.  There is so much contempt, fear, and suspicion in the very air we breathe that people are afraid to speak with honesty and vulnerability.  I have also found that the many acts of generous kindness I have experienced express a desire to be altruistic.  In the past two weeks ten different strangers in ten different towns have welcomed me into their homes, made wonderful meals, gave me a warm bed, told me their stories, and allowed me to tell something of mine.   The defensive part of my brain whispers that they do this because I am a pathetic and incompetent man who needs looking after.  There is another part of my brain which remembers the poem by Sydney Carter:

 

I come like a beggar with a gift in my hand

By the hungry I will feed you

By the poor I’ll make you rich

By the broken I will mend you

Tell me, which one is which?