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I’ve been working on finishing books this year, rather than reading only until I get bored or confused. I read a lot and I quote books all the time, but I don’t think people realize how rare it is that I actually finish a book. It’s not something I feel especially proud about, and since it’s a pattern that I also see elsewhere, I’ve decided to work on it some.
After many failed attempts, I’m proud to say I’ve finally broken well into Catherine Keller’s Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming. I’ve wanted to read Face of the Deep since I first read about it in Shelly Rambo’s Spirit and Trauma, but it’s not an easy read for me at all.
I imagine most of us have a threshold for how confused we can be without shutting down, depending on the context of course. And while I like to think I’ve done some good work building a tolerance, my simultaneous fixation and frustration with Face of the Deep has been a continuous reminder that a.) I often prefer situations in which a sense of clarity is available within the first five minutes and b.) I don’t always have a helpful attitude at times when I’m just not getting something.
I readied myself to read Face of the Deep in two ways. I read two of Keller’s other books which felt more accessible to me and I committed to a style of reading that I’m not necessarily used to, which is moving very slowly and being willing to “loiter with purpose1” if I don’t get what’s being said right away.
The latter is something I likely would have developed the tolerance, patience, and desire to do had I chosen other life paths, but it’s not something the path of wandering, promiscuous scholarship has ever really required of me. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I never stick with hard books. But I typically have a rotation going so it’s easy to opt for the paths of less resistance when the going gets incomprehensible.
Sticking with a hard book can be really worthwhile! Which of course is not surprising. I’ve found there’s a period of struggle and slow-going that, if you’re lucky, may eventually give way to smooth going and the option for cruising. Once you get a feel for how a particular writer communicates, a tough read can become a page turner. That particular kind of breaking through is one of my favorite experiences right now.
I recently started taking my dog to the field by my house to practice jogging on-leash. I haven’t been a runner in years, but was worried he wouldn’t have enough chances to run around on an upcoming trip to Vermont; he’s not allowed off-leash these days, but is accustomed to ripping around in our spacious fenced-in backyard.
On our first day jogging, we picked up a trot on the sidewalk and then headed down toward the park. Though this gait on a leash was a new thing for Mango, he picked it up right away and it wasn’t long before he broke into a smiling, open-mouthed gallop. Every few steps he’d look up at me, two eager brown eyes beaming out of his cute little head that’s largely jaws, teeth, and tongue when he’s running.
How thrilling it was! What bliss! We cut seamlessly into the schoolyard, vacant from summer vacation. What synergy! What perfect harmony! What a graceful and strange six-footed beastial dance! We had a good session, just jogging around. And as we made our way home that day I was so delighted with my very best friend. Gushing good boys every two seconds.
That feeling forged a template of expectation that came with me into day two. At that point I’d latched onto the idea that we’d also jog zig zags and sharp turns and serpentines. I laughed to myself thinking, *reads Donna Haraway once, is an overnight expert agility trainer.* We made it to the park in a similar way as before. Gliding and smiling. But as soon as we hit that field, I was jolted from my buzzing interspecies relational bliss state, by the (inconvenient! rude! audacious!) interference of difference.
This dog was throwing himself on the ground, jumping on me every two steps, and my every zig was not only a direct cue to zag but to zag with a passion. If you'd asked me that day I would have sworn he was getting some kind of kick out of thwarting my wishes.
The day before’s good boys quickly gave way to a refraining why are you like this? And god you’re so stubborn. The ordeal was extra aggravating since—as many of you know—my hands and arms have been in lots of pain these last months, and so a sixty-pound dog pulling and yanking and plopping at the end of a tether attached to my hand really did feel like a personal attack on my body.
It was horrible! I hated it! Getting a beast was a foolish idea!
And yet. This went on for days. Each morning I’d do the same thing and on the fourth day I broke down and wept. And then I realized something that anyone watching our bodies would have probably seen right away. We were locked into a dynamic of miscomprehension and limits that I refused to acknowledge. We weren’t understanding each other, and we were operating outside the limits of what we each know how to do. We know a few things by now about how the other communicates, but we weren’t using that knowledge. At least I wasn’t.