The first time I came across Wendell Berry was in the library of a large, dilapidated Jacobean mansion in Gloucestershire, home to a family and their many friends, people passing through, working on the farm, a small and messy operation with sheep and a couple of meadows, a garden, magic mushrooms in the fields. I was 21 years old, my English was rudimentary, I tried to act cool and rebellious, I was truly lost but saved by the generous hospitality and good humour that held this place together so well, also R, who brought me there.
The mansion is gone, the people moved on. Wendell Berry has been in my life ever since. He died two days ago.
It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impending stream is the one that sings.