When he said it aloud at the table last night, I already knew
but then I cried.
No small matter is here in this reminder of time, that Wendell—our Wendell Berry—has died.
Jez and I married beneath Fisher Peak in a sweaty August, underneath the eternal, comforting gaze of the Steeples range in the East Kootenay of British Columbia in 2007; in September we were nesting ourselves in number 16 Heather Place, a red-bricked, corner-wedged terrace in the impossibly ancient and leafy city of Oxford, Oxfordshire, and by January of the new year we had brought an 8 week old Irish Terrier/English Pointer cross into our fresh life and christened him ‘Wendell’.
Newly-orienting as we were at this, the beginning of our marriage, neither of us with settled careers and only a shred of shared history (which crucially included Regent College in Vancouver and, ergo, a warm familiarity with Wendell Berry), we both had a longing to root ourselves as best we could in the area and community in which we found ourselves, despite all our uncertainties, and Wendell was a sort of marker—and in true fact, a practical outworking—of that goodly desire. We met so many of our neighbours as we wore the paths down between us and the dreaming Spires, by way of Wendell’s friendliness, and came to know the place with him trotting at our side. He died at age 15, having also acquainted us with the ecological wonders of Victoria, BC in his final years.
We now own an Irish Terrier called Rosa who is expecting puppies. Last week we had a video call with prospective owners, a couple in Devon, one of whom is a tree feller, the other a church minister. When we mentioned that our first dog had been called Wendell, they piped up “Wendell Berry!” Our mouths fell open. We’d had no connection to these dear folks before, and they’d found us only by word of mouth as they enquired among the small world that is Irish Terrier breeders. I admit that there was an immediate instinct to move to Devon so we could just hang out with these people!
For those of you who have known of Mr Berry, there is nothing for me to say except “me too”. With you, I share in this sense of mourning for his departure from us.
If you haven’t discovered him—oh!—you really must, like so much treasure in a field.
I’m working on a new record using poetry from writers who, like Wendell Berry, identified deeply with the natural world and who saw and celebrated both its infinite and pleasurable immanence, and its mystical, metaphysical, and prophetic brilliance too.
I look forward to sharing it with you soon, and meanwhile, the Maker be blessed, Mr Berry—we are grateful for your life.
