Ruminate Magazine: Faith in Literature and Art

So I waited (procastinated). And in the meantime, I continued my research. To my relief, I soon stumbled upon an important realization—in many cases the editor’s note closely resembles the voice, form, and function of  the essay. What does this mean? Montaigne, the father of  the genre, used this word essay  (meaning “to try” or “to attempt”) because he felt this “trying” was a key characteristic of  the form. I love this invitation to essay the essay. I love that the act of  attempting, in and of  itself, is worthwhile. 

That said, I am excited to share the observations I have gathered after hours upon hours of  lovingly seeing the magazine through to publication, pouring over lines of  a poem or the phrasing of  a story in inexplicably detailed (and often hair-splitting) ways. I have decided that I have just enough standing to tell you my thoughts, so long as I don’t simplify what isn’t simple and don’t forget the freedom in my new favorite verb, essay.

 
With this new-found gusto in mind, I tackled the question: How does one introduce a “faith in literature and art” magazine’s story of  addiction? 

Well, let me try and answer. For our contributors, addiction has many stories and many threads. Sometimes it is about the circular and the “Stalled” as Amanda McQuade calls it; sometimes it is about the profound places where the circular becomes a vehicle for movement and growth. Yes, it is both. And yes, addiction has many other “sometimes.”

One of  our readers recently shared that, for her, the word ruminate had a negative connotation suggesting obsessive and cyclical thinking that rendered one incapable of  action. I am grateful that this is not the experience or connotation for most of  our readers, and yet, I find it fascinating that this idea of  returning or circling back can be a negative movement, just as much as it can be a positive one. In her poem “Making Merit,” Elizabeth Carlson writes about this ambiguity:

Released, I knew the birds were trained to return—
recaptured, resold.
I thought of  Peter’s return to nets of  tilapia
and chose carefully my handful of  guilt.

As much as addiction can define what is compulsive and therefore unhealthy, there are other stories where the returning is restorative, where it is a sign of  consistency, or, as is the case with the prodigal son, a lowering of  one’s self  before Him who deserves every return. Perhaps what can be distinguished between our two connotations of  circling is the thing to which we are returning—our “stalled” selves, or a grace utterly outside of  us
which never stops moving.

The pinwheel shapes in the work of  our innovative featured artist, Deanne Moulten, speaks to this circular motion’s capability for growth, as does Laura Solomon’s closing line in “The Cartographer’s Trauma Upon Waking.” Solomon writes, “Like all who map new territories, /  I begin again and again.” You can imagine my surprise to also read staffer Alexa Behmer’s comment in our “Last Note” section, a quote from St. Benedictine: “Always we begin again.” As all three of  these instances suggest with their visions of  beginnings and innovations, we are not defined by our addictions and the circle is not immutable. Mercies are new every morning.
 
Other contributors’ stories enlarge the circle of  addiction, revealing its signiicance to all of  us—how we are all broken, all touched by cycles of  gluttony, obsession, consumption, sexual addiction, indifference, and control. This is the story for Christine Jeske’s “Shower On,” which bears witness to the inconsistencies of  a life ministering to those in absolute poverty while still absolutely desiring and even hoarding material satisfactions. The humanity of  this story demands that we see how we are all unmade by our addictions. Perhaps it is this act of  rendering the messy messy circle that will spur us toward awareness of  a God who restores and remakes upon every return.  So yes, these are my attempts, my threads to hold on to. But read on, and I am sure you will find your own brilliant lines of  poetry to revisit.
          
With peace,

Brianna VanDyke