In a landscape often dominated by the noise of political polarization and the frantic pace of modern life, Chris La Tray offers a startlingly quiet counter-narrative: that the most radical act one can commit today is to reconnect with the ancient, slow rhythms of the natural world. Rather than offering a policy prescription or a cultural critique of the current moment, La Tray argues that the very survival of the human spirit depends on reclaiming the "simpleminded" art of living poetry, drawing a direct line from 12th-century Japanese monks to a modern Métis writer navigating the American West.
The Architecture of Simplicity
La Tray opens not with a grand thesis, but with a disorienting observation of climate chaos—a robin singing in a Montana winter—before pivoting to a discovery in a Seattle bookstore that serves as the essay's emotional anchor. He stumbled upon the work of David Budbill, a poet who championed a life stripped of pretense. "I am a very simpleminded person. I write in a very plain way. I want to write poems that can be understood by just about anybody," Budbill wrote, a sentiment La Tray embraces as a lifeline. This framing is effective because it bypasses the intellectual exhaustion of the current era, suggesting that clarity, not complexity, is the antidote to modern alienation.
The author's choice to center Budbill is strategic; it allows La Tray to critique the "soulless distractors" of contemporary life without naming them directly. He posits that the "determined and dedicated efforts" of these distractions are actively pulling us away from the "important simplicity of a place among the wider, older than human world." This argument lands with particular force because it reframes the struggle not as a failure of will, but as a systemic assault on our connection to reality. Critics might note that this retreat into simplicity can sometimes feel like a luxury unavailable to those fighting for basic survival, yet La Tray acknowledges the "human failings and frailties" that make this pursuit so difficult, grounding his idealism in a shared vulnerability.
Real poetry is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
The Wandering Monk and the Modern Road
The commentary deepens as La Tray weaves in the historical figure of Saigyō, a wandering monk from the 12th century, to contextualize his own experiences on the road. He notes that Saigyō was "free to visit famous sites of poetry and beautiful scenery" precisely because he had no possessions, a stark contrast to the modern traveler bound by GPS and the contents of a car. La Tray writes, "Without a map, he must have become lost many times... and since he did not necessarily understand local dialects, from time to time he may have struggled to communicate." By drawing this parallel, he elevates the mundane act of a book tour into a spiritual pilgrimage, suggesting that the "struggle to understand others" is not a bug in the system, but a feature of genuine connection.
This historical parallel is not merely decorative; it serves as a lens to examine the economics of art. La Tray compares his newsletter to the begging bowl of the ancient monk, stating, "This newsletter is my bowl. I hold it out to you with every post and beseech you to keep me out there through your kind support." He argues that the exchange of art for sustenance is a timeless tradition, one that connects the "tired, shabby, traveling not-monk" to the lineage of Saigyō and the blues musicians who traveled the Mississippi Blues Trail. The comparison to musicians is particularly poignant, as he notes that both groups faced "racism everywhere they went" and lived lives "steeped in broken hearts and violence," yet continued to "plant seeds of beauty wherever they went too."
The Cost of the Journey
Despite the romanticism of the wandering life, La Tray does not shy away from the exhaustion it entails. He admits that while he is "fortunate and grateful," he is also "tired and happy for the break." This honesty prevents the piece from becoming a mere pastoral fantasy. He recognizes that the "gift" of time on his porch is fleeting, and that to maintain access to it, he must return to the road where his living is made. This tension between the need for rest and the necessity of labor is the piece's most human element. As he puts it, "Making and sharing art is not a 'safe' undertaking and never has been but it could sure be made easier more often than it is."
La Tray also offers a sharp, self-reflective critique of how Western audiences consume Eastern philosophy, admitting he feels "resentment to guys like Budbill too, these white students of Zen." He points out the irony of "earnest white people" discovering ancient traditions while ignoring the "ancient traditions from Indigenous contemplatives right here on Turtle Island." This moment of introspection adds significant depth, preventing the essay from slipping into cultural appropriation and instead positioning it as a genuine search for a personal path. He concludes that his goal is not "telling people how they should live, but trying to track down how I want to."
Bottom Line
Chris La Tray's piece succeeds by refusing to engage with the immediate political fray, instead offering a timeless argument for the necessity of slowness and connection in a fractured world. Its greatest strength lies in its ability to weave the ancient wisdom of Saigyō and Bashō into the gritty reality of a modern book tour, creating a narrative that feels both historically grounded and urgently relevant. The only vulnerability is the inherent difficulty of translating this "beautiful life" into a sustainable model for others, but La Tray's honest admission of his own fatigue suggests he is aware of the gap between the ideal and the real. In an era of constant noise, this quiet insistence on the value of a single, observed moment is a profound act of resistance.