Grass Clippings, Fruit Bats, Hot Shot, and Mozart

Everything had to fit perfectly and balanced—150 feet of extension cord daisy chained around my shoulder, like rounds of ammo; Lawn Boy weed eater; trash bags; clippings basket; the big blue shop broom; 2-gallon gas can; cooler of water; extra weed eater line—but the good bright orange stuff that was heavy duty. I was 13, walking down Butte Creek with all of this carefully stacked, a new John Deere self-propelled mower “financed” to me by my father. I pushed the whole mess with my right hand and pulled the nice Toro edger behind me, with a Briggs and Stratton 1.5 horsepower motor—Dad always said he liked Briggs and Stratton. I learned how to clean the air filters, blow out the fuel filters, and use my screwdriver to see if the engine was “getting a spark.” The worst possible delay during a five- or six-yard day was when I pulled either of the pull-start ropes too hard and they broke. Now I had to disassemble the whole business and find the longest part of the rope, reattach around the coil, and maybe retie the handle—only now, the travel was shorter and I really had to give it a yank and hope it cranked. I learned about “Hot Shot”—what a great smell. You could spray this right into the carburetor, and these little engines would explode to a roaring start—literally.

I have been considering lately, how our work can be measured against our purpose and desires. I remember these big lawn days, at one point mowing close to 40, working to pay for school, save for things that I knew I would need, or worse, what I thought I needed, all the while grumbling about how all this was way beneath me and was just temporary. Day dreaming in a circular fashion as I mowed, how I really wanted to be playing my trombone in a big orchestra, and that all this was a chore, holding me back, taking my time, why do I have to do this, I’m hungry, and why can’t dad build us a pool in the back yard like all my other friends. I hated sweeping (this was way before gas blowers). When I was learning to mow and edge, dad would blow all the clippings into the street, I think there was this unspoken contest between him and Mr. Miller across the street. The best lawn club is one that you are initiated into and is hard to leave. The grass clippings seemed to land halfway in the middle of Butte Creek. Sometimes I would save that job until dusk in hopes of dad letting me off the hook. Nope – dad always found me, “finish the job well” he would say, and sent me sweeping. Sweeping under the streetlights, while watching fruit bats dive bomb insects and being fascinated by the big bug sprayer trucks made the job last well past 10PM.

I never once considered that perhaps this work was necessary for every part of my development—building character, teaching me stewardship, grit, and that my attitude in this work was the most important thing.

Now, many years later, I am still learning those same lessons. The settings change, the responsibilities increase, and the stakes feel higher, but the lesson remains. So, it is not my resourcefulness, discipline, self-perceived creative genius, or devotion to a cause, necessarily, but rather, my attitude in all types of work that transforms me—and continues to reveal where I still have more to learn.

While sitting in the pit during a beautiful ballet performance, I have the opportunity, after a very big Fanfare for the Common Man, to hear Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5 in its entirety. There is ballet on the stage but I cannot see it. I can only hear the pattering of feet. So, I have had the opportunity to sit and listen and take in every nuance of phrasing—from the bassist sitting next to me, the extraordinary solo concertmaster, and exquisite high horn lines that are kissed upon entry. I am reminded that the ability to appreciate, understand the structure, and relate to this music is not self-begotten. It has been formed, shaped, and given over time.

I continue to believe that this highly expressive art form, and the delicacy and artistry that requires its assembly is, as Sertillanges states, “the son of the Idea, of the Truth, of the creative World, the Life-giver immanent in creation.” It is something received and stewarded, not manufactured.

I am surrounded by AI, and not yet completely annoyed, but cautious. I have used this tool in my daily study, organization, finance, and have constructed agents to help me grasp all the details that creative work demands—thus allowing me to be more focused on actually being creative. It is a tremendous blessing, and a curse, depending on how it is held and what it begins to replace rather than support.

​There is coming a time when the human element of our condition will become that true son of the Idea of the Creative World. We as a race will demand authenticity, purity, organic beauty from the human soul—not as preference, but as necessity. These elements require a hard pressing on every side, a trial by fire, and in nearly every instance, they require conditions of the human soul, intellectual life, and shared human relationships. Is there a design that exists far above our awareness? I believe science seems to point toward this more clearly every day, even as it cannot fully explain it.

This was the feeling I had while listening to Mozart as it is set to ballet, and performed not by curated digitized cloning, but by real people—who sometimes play slightly behind the beat, or maybe on rare occasions, chip a note. Led by a conductor who is serving the dance but remaining true to Mozart, and who also has agency over the inspiration of the moment and makes subtle decisions in tempo because a dancer is perhaps a little more energetic in their choreography notions today. There is life in that. There is risk in that. There is something unrepeatable in that exchange.
I read something last night in this new book (to me) that Mary recommended.

This seemed profound to me:
"Great men seem to us men of great boldness; in reality they are more obedient than others. The sovereign voice speaks to them. It is because they are actuated by an instinct which is a prompting of that sovereign voice that they take, always, with courage and sometimes with great humility, the place that posterity will later give them—venturing on acts and risking inventions often out of harmony with their time and place and even incurring much sarcasm from their fellows. They are not afraid because, however isolated they may appear to be, they feel that they are not alone. They have on their side the power that finally settles everything. They have a premonition of their empire to come.

The man who has not the sense of true greatness is easily exultant or easily depressed, sometimes both together. Always conscious of the immensity of the true and of the slenderness of our resources, we shall not undertake anything beyond our power, but we shall go on to the limit of our power. We shall rejoice, then, in what has been given us in our measure."
From: The Intellectual Life, Its Spirit, Conditions, Methods.
By A.G. Sertillanges

I see a magnetism and confidence in certain people that comes from this place of knowing. Those who illustrate resilience after a loss, who elect to traffic in gratitude and grace, and those who understand that their life is in service to those things grand. Those who walk with less concern about how they are perceived, but instead work on their perception of others, rejoice in “what has been given us in our measure,” and seem to move with a quiet steadiness.
Risking inventions, risking performance, risking rejection or loss makes the very image bearer I desire to know. Moving forward, learning once and for all the first lessons, and yet somehow always relearning them, leaning on the “immensity of the true.”

A very dear friend called me last night. I could hear it in his voice… there was a slight tone of resignation, exasperation, and perhaps entitlement. I related to everything he said and I had no answers—only recognition. I thought of the years of encouragement, mentoring, and committed excellence he has modeled in his work and life. He will never know the impact he had on me personally and so many others. I too have had those questioning moments—asking why, after so much devotion, obedience, discipline, did the dream not materialize. Everyone has those unspoken desires that are too fragile to bring into the light, for fear of being ridiculed or exposed, or perhaps never realized. Sit with it.

The end of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony depicts this in a way that can only be experienced though music. The last thing he wrote ends in the most subtle release. Loss, disorientation, grief, reflection, acceptance, where grief seems to metabolize into clarity and peace.

The chaos that exists in the world and the uncertainty of all things, moving at an exponentially quick rate, has caused us to fill every moment with activity, striving, indulging. Silence has all but vanished, and being together, in a peaceful, transfixed moment—like sitting in Mozart or Mahler and not playing—is the therapy and ministering wholeness I needed. It is a reminder that we are not machines, and that presence itself is formative.

The John Deere work, the teaching, the festival, the sitting still and listening, all come from the same well of trusting and knowing. Maybe they lead to grand vision work, or not. Maybe they contribute in ways we can never know. So let us venture out on those inventions that are out of harmony with our time, realizing the slenderness of our resources but walking and rejoicing in confidence that we have, on our side, the Power that settles everything—and that this is enough.
​
Brent Phillips