Between Our Steps: Planting Peace in an Uncertain World
In an era of economic uncertainty and global unrest, hope may lie not in dreams of escape, but in gardens, homes, and the everyday work of peace and justice.
COMMUNITY CONTRIBUTION
The day I started writing this piece, the Bank of Canada chose not to drop interest rates. Their press release said that things were too uncertain. They could not even issue their usual economic forecast. Instead, they described two possible scenarios.
How is anyone supposed to plan in an atmosphere like that?
Planning is only part of the problem. How to hope feels to me even more fundamental.
Spring is a season of hope. We made it through a tough winter, and now we should get to relax. We watch for signs of new life. How many of us announced the first sightings of robins and red-winged blackbirds?
We scoured gardens for the first snowdrops. We announced to all and sundry, “Sap is running today,” even if we are not maple syrup producers ourselves.
We looked for signs that the cycle of nature was at work. Farmers were checking how wet the fields were, getting ready to work the land and plant another season’s harvest.
At least for now, the natural world is inspiring a certain measure of hope. We do need to address climate change if we want our grandchildren’s springs to be as hopeful, but for now, signs of tulips are a relief.
The trouble is that whoever we put in Parliament twelve days after I started this piece (likely known by the time you read this) has a huge task ahead of them, with multiple threats from south of the border and little sense of how things will shake out.
What does hope look like for Canada, for Canadians, for me, for you?
When asked what we hope for, we often think that we need to imagine big things. A dream job. Enough money to retire early. The trip of a lifetime: to Australia, the fjords of Norway, or the Galapagos Islands. It’s good to hope for a dream to come true. I am not going to dismiss dreaming. But I think it is helpful to distinguish dreaming from hoping.
One of my favourite biblical passages comes from the Hebrew scriptures, the prophet Isaiah. It is in the last section of the book, written while the people are in exile in Babylon, but with the hope of returning home on the horizon. Stuck in Babylon for two generations, the people are beginning to hope they can go home. What does hope look like to them?
This is what is written in what we call the sixty-fifth chapter of the book of Isaiah (NRSV):
No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days, or an old person who does not live out a lifetime… They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat….
The people of Sudan would understand this. Now, for almost a generation, conflict has driven people from their homes. They know that peace means that you live in your home, plant your garden, and your children go to school.
The people of Ukraine understand this: your new house will not be destroyed by a drone; your children are not going to war; your farmers can plant their fields.
I cannot imagine planting grain in a war zone; it’s hard enough work in Grey County. But if fields are not planted in Ukraine, a country that supplied the world, who else is going hungry?
To come closer to home, the family with two parents working minimum wage jobs understands this: hope is not having to choose between paying rent and buying food. To the person in a wheelchair, hope is having transport to appointments readily available. To the single mom, hope is affordable daycare.
There are bigger hopes. We achieve a net-zero carbon output sooner than 2050. We become a less divisive society. Justice and peace permeate the world. These are important. These are worth striving for.
But affordable housing is part of what defines peace. Food security defines both justice and peace. Planting a garden or a field and having the crop grow well through to harvest is part of what defines a world that works as it should.
I am thankful to the one who wrote those words and to those who transcribed them. These words help me to see what hope actually looks like.
Thank you to sponsors of The Owen Sound Current Writers’ Fund, who make these community contributions possible. Contributions from the community do not necessarily reflect the opinions or beliefs of The Owen Sound Current and its editor or publisher.
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