The Great Reclamation Quotes

It was elegant in its simplicity, shameless in its daring, as most of the Gah Men's plans were. Squatters? Move them. Communists? Jail them. Housing? Build it. Even the earth itself was deemed malleable, a cost-benefit analysis conducted, a decision made. The rest was execution.

Living one’s desire is an adventure like no other. There are no safety nets, no seat belts. In fact, when you plight your troth to your desires, you’re kind of asking for it. You’re grabbing the hand of the Great Pussy in the Sky and asking to be broken open. Asking to be remade. Asking for the current version of you to be shattered and reassembled into the woman you were born to become. This is part of the life cycle of what it means to be a woman. Just as the seasons are cyclical, with winter as necessary as spring, and the sun and moon move in cycles, with times of light and times of darkness, so moves the body and soul of a woman. We each require the dark night of the soul as much as we require the light. The word I use to describe this undoing? Rupture.

Reclamation is hard work. Finding the value in your group’s characteristics means always having to confront the darkness in those characteristics. For example, it is acceptable, and productive, to think of America as a great nation. It has many great characteristics, from the freedom it grants its citizens to the cultural contributions it has fostered and rewarded. But by unearthing America’s good qualities, you will also find its destructive qualities. The way it has interfered internationally and created death and misery for countless citizens of other nations, its history of genocide and slavery, and so on. It is possible to know America’s destructive power and still think it is a great nation. But some prefer not to look at all, so as to avoid the cognitive dissonance. It

For most of human history, when you were born you inherited an off-the-shelf package of religious and cultural constraints. This was a kind of library of limits that was embedded in your social and physical environment. These limits performed certain self-regulatory tasks for you so you didn’t have to take them on yourself. The packages included habits, practices, rituals, social conventions, moral codes, and a myriad of other constraints that had typically evolved over many centuries, if not millennia, to reliably guide – or shall we say design – our lives in the direction of particular values, and to help us give attention to the things that matter most. In the twentieth century the rise of secularism and modernism in the West occasioned the collapse – if not the jettisoning – of many of these off-the-shelf packages of constraints in the cause of the liberation of the individual. In many cases, this rejection occurred on the basis of philosophical or cosmological disagreements with the old packages. This has, of course, had many great benefits. Yet by rejecting entire packages of constraint, we’ve also rejected those constraints that were actually useful for our purposes. “The left’s project of liberation,” writes the American philosopher Matthew Crawford, “led us to dismantle inherited cultural jigs that once imposed a certain coherence (for better and worse) on individual lives. This created a vacuum of cultural authority that has been filled, opportunistically, with attentional landscapes that get installed by whatever ‘choice architect’ brings the most energy to the task – usually because it sees the profit potential.” The German philosopher Peter Sloterdijk, in his book You Must Change Your Life, has called for a reclamation of this particular aspect of religion – its habits and practices – which he calls “anthropotechnics.”6 When you dismantle existing boundaries in your environment, it frees you from their limitations, but it requires you to bring your own boundaries where you didn’t have to before. Sometimes, taking on this additional self-regulatory burden is totally worth it. Other times, though, the cost is too high. According to the so-called “ego-depletion” hypothesis, our self-control, our willpower, is a finite resource.7 So when the self-regulatory cost of bringing your own boundaries is high enough, it takes away willpower that could have been spent on something else.

From every direction, the place is under assault—and unlike in the past, the adversary is not concentrated in a single force, such as the Bureau of Reclamation, but takes the form of separate outfits conducting smaller attacks that are, in many ways, far more insidious. From directly above, the air-tour industry has succeeded in scuttling all efforts to dial it back, most recently through the intervention of Arizona’s senators, John Kyl and John McCain, and is continuing to destroy one of the canyon’s greatest treasures, which is its silence. From the east has come a dramatic increase in uranium-mining claims, while the once remote and untrammeled country of the North Rim now suffers from an ever-growing influx of recreational ATVs. On the South Rim, an Italian real estate company recently secured approval for a massive development whose water demands are all but guaranteed to compromise many of the canyon’s springs, along with the oases that they nourish. Worst of all, the Navajo tribe is currently planning to cooperate in constructing a monstrous tramway to the bottom of the canyon, complete with a restaurant and a resort, at the confluence of the Little Colorado and the Colorado, the very spot where John Wesley Powell made his famous journal entry in the summer of 1869 about venturing “down the Great Unknown.” As vexing as all these things are, what Litton finds even more disheartening is the country’s failure to rally to the canyon’s defense—or for that matter, to the defense of its other imperiled natural wonders. The movement that he and David Brower helped build is not only in retreat but finds itself the target of bottomless contempt. On talk radio and cable TV, environmentalists are derided as “wackos” and “extremists.” The country has swung decisively toward something smaller and more selfish than what it once was, and in addition to ushering in a disdain for the notion that wilderness might have a value that extends beyond the metrics of economics or business, much of the nation ignorantly embraces the benefits of engineering and technology while simultaneously rejecting basic science.

It is God’s new creative act, his great reclamation project that is even greater than the creation itself, because whereas we are “wonderfully created,” we are “yet more wonderfully restored.”30

But home was not a place. Home was people, home was family.

There was a trim, tidy quality to the vegetation here, one that the Lees were unused to, so different was it from the sprawling, encroaching mangroves, the tree roots that destabilized the foundations of their houses, the slimy moss that crept over everything left outside. Here, the dead leaves were swept up as soon as they dared fall; the grass was permitted to grow only to a certain height. Wildflowers and weeds were rare, springing only occasionally from the wet cracks in the rounded walls of wide storm drains.

The revelation of the Risen Christ as universal and eternal was clearly affirmed in the Scriptures (Colossians 1, Ephesians 1, John 1, Hebrews 1) and in the early church, when the euphoria of the Christian faith was still creative and expanding. In our time, however, this deep mode of seeing must be approached as something of a reclamation project. When the Western church separated from the East in the Great Schism of 1054, we gradually lost this profound understanding of how God has been liberating and loving all that is. Instead, we gradually limited the Divine Presence to the single body of Jesus, when perhaps it is as ubiquitous as light itself—and uncircumscribable by human boundaries.

But the white uniform had a magic about it, one that rinsed the disdain from the voices of men like these, that straightened their backs and subdued their gazes.

But the grief, once a harsh rope that seemed to tighten at every turn, had now softened with time into a delicate thread, woven invisibly into the fabric of their daily lives.

You know. You cannot just–" Ah Boon stopped. *Walk in here and ask me to open myself up all over again*, he thought, but he did not say (Heng 253).

When he pulled up the nets, they contained only one kind of fish– black pomfres, the flat diamonds of their bodies slick in the morning light. The uniformity did not surprise him; over the years, he'd learned that the waters here were temperamental. They could be relied upon for a good catch, but from time to time they threw up only praws or squid, and other times colorful varieties of fish that weren't even supposed to be found in this region. He'd grown to accept the unpredictability, embracing it as a game to be played, like the reading of tea leaves or the grooves of a palm (Heng 217).

But as the old body of his father's boat thudded over the dull brown waves, the smell of fish pursuing him always, he saw the city, gleaming and spotless, rising as if dormant from the sea. Sparkling buildings of metal and glass, roads of flawless asphalt, bright electric streetlights;. . .it was a beautiful, impossible sight. A beautiful, improbable, ulikely nation" (Heng 447).