I met Marisa (pronounced "Marīsa") at the 2019 Philosophy as a Way of Life conference at University of Notre Dame. She was part of a group of folks who had been at a previous NEH workshop together, many of whom rented a house to share during the conference in South Bend. One night, I shared a fire with them and happened to sit next to Marisa during the sing-around. Learning about what she's been up to, I was heartened. Her group is doing community-based philosophy woven into people's lives. I thought that academics might find inspiration from her organization about how to extend what we focus on in our studies into long-term, community-based practice - the books alive & philosophy people-sized, & people part of the country-side. Marisa & I exchanged sets of long voice-recordings as a way of conducting our interview. She then wrote up a transcript based on her replies to my questions from her voice-notes. She also adapted material from a forthcoming book chapter in various places. Then I subtracted my questions, edited her responses lightly, and sent it out to Sidra & Katherine (my co-editors). Some more voice notes, a phone call, and further emails ensued. Given only in Marisa's voice as a dramatic monologue, what's here resulted from that several-month-long process - Marisa taking the stage in a happier version of a Sam Shepard play:
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Marisa:
I think philosophy is a form of love that can help each of us find our own way.
My name is Marisa, born in Santa Monica, California. I spent most of my formative years along the coastlines of SoCal with some stints in other states. During my high school and college years, I lived in the Laguna Beach and Oceanside areas, as well as a few years up in Humboldt.
I enjoy all sorts of things – being outdoors, exploring, thinking deeply, laughing, playing, dancing, art, sports, jazz, reggae, animals, good food, and good friends.
I’m also – and I think even more so as I’ve gotten older – a solo bird who loves her some elbow room and alarmingly lengthy periods of isolation. I love being around people, but at the same time, I cherish and need – on a fundamental level – a lot of alone time, room for contemplation.
I’ve been fortunate over the course of my life to have been exposed to some amazing things and people from many different walks of life. All, I think, contribute to “who I am” – to the extent that we can capture that.
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These days, I have the pleasure of living on and serving as a steward of Merlin Nature Preserve – a wildlife refuge just outside of Helena, MT.
And I run a public philosophy non-profit called, Merlin CCC – “Merlin,” for short.
Merlin is a form of community philosophy best described as “philosophy in and by the community.” The emphasis (“by the community”) is important insofar as the way that we operate – the kinds of programs that we do, our philosophical approach – is in many ways inspired by community members and the belief that WE ARE ALL PHILOSOPHERS in an important sense. We all have something valuable to offer.
The community thing is cool. When I think about philosophy, I can’t help but think about community. Sure, it can be done individually where a person engages in dialogue with a text and ideas, and I think that this is important (it’s definitely part of my process, a BIG part). But when it comes to dialoging with others, there is something special, maybe something more important than the solo ventures. With others, ideas are more concretely put to the test.
I have always found it hard to think about philosophy without thinking about its public face. Of course, I can envision it, but I really have to stretch the boundaries of my imagination and conception of the discipline in order to do so. And even then I do philosophy “in brackets,” never fully separating the public domain and its affairs from the larger enterprise of philosophy.
I’m sure that part of my approach can be chalked up to my personal temperament and proclivities. But more of it has to do with the kind of philosophical training I received as a youth (informally, by my poppa) and as a student (formally). I was introduced to philosophy as something to be lived – not in ways that remove or divorce us from the world and its problems, but as active agents within it.
This characterization of philosophy makes philosophy just as much an activity involving careful and rigorous thinking as a mechanism for thriving and becoming the best possible versions of ourselves that we can be. I love this. To me, the characterization grounds philosophy in everyday life and puts philosophy to task. It also reveals something fundamental about philosophy. The questions of philosophy are the questions of life.
Darien Pollock said it really well in his article, “Philosophizing in the Streets”: all philosophical dispositions are products of a “street disposition.” Philosophy “presupposes a particular kind of civic engagement.” I dig that.
Merlin is a platform for learning from and with one another, rigorously examining and exploring ideas together, having fun with philosophy — & for putting philosophy to task. It’s street, baby!
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As I explained for a book forthcoming this year, Merlin was born of love and sorrow. Love is easy enough to grasp. But sorrow is admittedly more opaque. For me, the two intertwine.
On the one hand, Merlin is a natural (albeit non-traditional) extension of my academic training in philosophy which sees the discipline in its most robust form as a “hands in dirt” activity rooted in the joys, sorrows, and challenges of everyday life.
On the other, it is a very personal (albeit public) way for me to philosophically navigate my father’s death – of grieving his loss, of honoring his life, and (as I have come to discover) of remaining open to the lessons he continues to teach.
I founded the non-profit shortly after my adoptive father – Lee Waian – died. Lee had been struggling with Parkinson’s, and I had the honor of living with him and serving as his caregiver for the last 12 years of his life. And I mean this very genuinely. Lee was an excellent human being in every sense of the word. It was an honor to be part of that man’s life – he was my teacher, my mentor, my father, and my best friend (my buddy).
I was in grad school at the time at SDSU working on my MA in philosophy. We were living in Oceanside in this awesomely funky cottage in the Seaside neighborhood. There were these massive trees that arched over the street and housed hawks and crows. It was walking distance to the beach! We were there – renting – until I finished grad school, at which point we were going to live in Montana full time (on the preserve where I live now), as opposed to just going up in the summer time.
My dad is the one who got the preserve going, and it was his dream to spend his final, final years there – doing research, watching the birds, sitting in the silent beauty of the place. He was a brilliant ecologist and biologist who did some pretty amazing things in his lifetime.
Well, a month shy of summer about 11 years ago now, my dad passed away. It’s a very painful and ever-present memory for me – a potent one. During this time, I realized how much philosophy brought to my life.
When my dad died, there was a new sense of urgency and a more refined, focused vision for what I wanted to do with philosophy and why.
I mean, philosophy is worth doing for its own sake. It’s beautiful. I really do believe this. But it’s also about as practical as you can get. It’s worth doing because it can help us become the best possible versions of ourselves.
And so Merlin was born – as a response to my own grief and as a response to philosophy’s ability to help me navigate the wakes of life. It was an invitation for others to find their own way with philosophy, not as therapy (though I do think philosophy can heal), but as a practice that can help us get through and make sense of this sticky world together.
Lots of things can help us live well. But for me, philosophy has been the one that works most concretely.
Why wouldn’t you want to share that with others?
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That’s what I did with Merlin. Much to my delight over the years and with the help of community, Merlin’s taken shape in interesting, cool, and unexpected ways.
Our programs tend to take place in less formal learning spaces [“philosophy by moonlight”! – jbk] within hiking trails, pubs, parks, theaters, outdoor meeting spots, convention centers, and other such venues. Some of our activities—like our philosophy symposiums and forums—take place in more traditional places of learning, e.g., colleges, universities, libraries. We offer several on-line programs, too. Here “space” becomes more nebulous. Generally speaking, however, philosophy in atypical places is kind of our jam (and our preference).
In terms of who comes to our jams, it’s pretty wide-ranging and inclusive. All kinds of people participate in our activities—from young to old. The youngest we’ve had at an event was 3 or 4 months old, I believe, and the eldest 99, just a few days shy of her 100th birthday, in fact. People with diverse life experiences, perspectives, and backgrounds, and with varying levels of familiarity with philosophy or philosophizing-together-in-community join in.
Generally speaking, while some of our participants have had formal training in philosophy, the majority have not. People taking part in our activities identify as students, artists, teachers, ranchers, musicians, farmers, retirees, hunters, hikers, fisherfolk, bikers, waiters, authors, lawyers, homemakers, and more. Our programs are also inter-generational. Even in cases where programs are designed for youth, adults and elders are invited and encouraged to participate. The diverse contributions and enriched understandings that come from these sorts of pairings are beautiful.
I fondly recall the first activity we offered shortly after opening our doors in the fall of 2015. It was a philosophy walk (or hike) up on Mount Helena. My mom, Tricia, flew in from Alaska as a show of support to do the first walk with me. The walk started at 10 AM. It was 9:57 AM, and no one had shown up. I looked at my mom, and said: “We’ll, even if it’s just the two of us, we’ll still have a great time and talk about philosophy.” Then, out of nowhere, a man jumps out of the bushes (well, not technically; he came around the corner which just happened to have a bush situated on it), and he shouts, with hands on hips: “MAN IN NEED OF PHILOSOPHY. AM I TOO LATE?” I affectionately refer to this man now as Wild Man Bill Hallinan. “Not too late at all! Yahoo!” we shouted. And off we went, just the three of us, on Merlin’s maiden voyage philosophy walk.
Today, we offer monthly walks, except for in super or obscenely cold months. We average anywhere from 10 – 20 people per walk. We offer a few hayride-philosophy walks on Merlin Nature Preserve too – including an annual Halloween one for kids. We offer other programs – from philosophy think & drinks, to symposiums, and drive-ins to workshops.
Philosophy is worth our while. It’s beautiful.
This is where philosophy goes to get unfinished. -jbk
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My experience with Merlin’s community intersects with so many of the experiences in my life where I’ve found deep meaning.
For example, I’ve had heartfelt & insightful conversations in many places outside the classroom – from barstool conversations about life, to talk about gardening and what makes for a healthy bloom, to talking about sports by playing them, and spilling over to philosophical texts around a campfire.
Here’s a conversation I remember:
It had been a long day, and I was in the mood for a cold brewski. So I decided to stop at a bar called the Silver City Saloon on the way home.
I sit down an open stool at the end of the bar next to an old rancher. We strike up a conversation and, after a while, he starts talking about his daughter. She was a Nursing major, he said, who had just changed over to Spanish and was getting ready to study abroad in Mexico for a semester.
It’s pretty obvious that he’s not pleased about the situation; so I ask him why. Some of it had to do with him not wanting her to go; he was going to miss her. But more had to do with what he said next: “We’re in America,” he said. “We speak English here. Why should we speak anything else? No value in that.” (Me: Silent gulp, breath).
I remember not quite knowing how to respond. But after taking a long sip of my beer, here’s what I went with:
“Hmm…, I don’t know. America is a home to a lot of languages, not just English. I mean, I speak more than one language,” I say. “But what you said about value, that’s really interesting. Why don’t you see speaking more than one language as valuable?”
He looks at me (with some hesitation), takes a swig of his beer, and says, “Well, even if you travel other places, they speak English. So I don’t see what the bother is. Just stick with what you got.”
“Uh huh,” I reply. “Are you meaning something like “if ain’t broke don’t fix it?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He says.
“Okay. I can appreciate that. There’s no sense in making things harder than they are. But I don’t know! I have a hard time thinking of language like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a rancher, right?”
“Yup,” he replies, “4th generation.”
“Cool. You’ve been in it. So, then, here’s what I’m wondering: Since you’ve been ranching, has anything changed? Do you know more now about ranching then you did when you were twenty? Like, do you ranch in the same way?”
“I still ranch cattle. That’s what I’ve always done.”
“Ok, but are there things that you do now – like with your rotations, or water, or feed – that you didn’t do when you were first starting out? Or things that you have found to work better as you’ve honed your craft?”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “There all sorts of things that have come out that weren’t around when I was a kid. Plus, I can’t do the same things as before – the land has changed. What people want has changed. It’s different.”
“But you’re still here ranching,” I say. “So you must have figured out ways to adapt?”
“Yup,” (swig of beer).
“How different is that than learning a new language?”
He looks at me (with curiosity) and asks, “What do you mean?”
“It just kind of seems like all of these things you’ve been doing over the years – the skills you’ve picked up, equipment or techniques – are like language. In order to survive and keep ranching, you’ve had to stay connected. You’ve had to listen to the land, your cattle, and all of that and figure out what needed to be done. And if you weren’t able to figure that all out, well then we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about you being a rancher. Right? So it sounds to me that you’re fluent in more than one language English. You speak ranching, too.”
There’s a long-ish pause, another swig from the beer, a chuckle, and then… he nods.
“You’re alright, kid.”
And that was that.
PHILOSOPHY IS EVERYWHERE.
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I once heard a tale that stuck with me. It was about two wolves. There are various versions of it, but the one I heard is attributed to the Lakota. It goes something like this:
A youth asks the tribal elder what life is all about.
The elder replies, “You see, life is made up of two wolves: one of love, and one of hate.”
The child asks, “who wins?”
The elder replies, “It depends on which one you feed.”
*
Oceanside, California - the surf & the rocks. & "the steady force of Ruth Vallejo-Reviczky, one of my oldest and dearest friends since high school. We played b-ball together (against one another in high school, together in college, and then again as civilians with the Marine Corps), and navigated the loss of our respective parent figures together in our own way. That picture was taken in route to Mexico with friends; we were going down there to commemorate Lee’s passing by flying a hawk kite above the beaches, have some wine, hike."
I love to learn and grow – and so do the people that come to our gatherings. This is not to say that we all think the same. We bring our own perspectives and ways of making sense of the world with us. There are a lot of areas where our views overlap and intersect – and many where they don’t. The areas where they don’t have yielded some of the most lively and fruitful conversations. I think we all share a desire to learn and grow – and to do so with one another. That’s really special.
Even if someone else had founded Merlin, and I stumbled across it – I would absolutely be interested in it, both when I was a kid and now.
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Who was I as a kid? I had a lot of energy. I was curious and outgoing. Sports were really good for me. They gave me a unique sort of focus and way to push myself and excel.
I started out in gymnastics – that was my first serious sports endeavor. I did that for several years competitively before injuring my back pretty badly, resulting in surgery years later. But it was a great experience and gave me a solid foundation.
Then I got into track & field, volleyball, and basketball in high school. I always laugh at this, because I’m pretty short. I think I was about 5’1” or 5’2” at the time, and I’m only about 5’5” now on a good day. I sure knew how to pick ‘em!
Regardless of my size, I did relatively well. I was competitive (with myself more than anything), dedicated (sometimes a bit too obsessively), and typically ended up in leadership roles as a captain or co-captain. I never entirely knew how or why that happened, but it did. I just loved what I was doing and gave it my all. I loved coming together as a team.
After high school, I went on to play college ball and, after that for a couple more years, to play as a civilian on the women’s Marine Corps Team at Camp Pendleton.
I mention all of this, because the harnesses that sports gave me – the goal posts, the rules, the restrictions, the drills, the routines, the things required to excel – are the same kind of harnesses my dad gave me in life. When we butted heads, it was because deep down I needed limits and because I like to do things well. He knew this. My dad gave me the boundaries that I needed in order for my growth to take shape.
A year or so ago, my colleague and friend – David Nowakowski – led an awesome philosophy walk on ecology and excellence. During one of the stops, we talked about how limits and boundaries are necessary for growth, and how can they can bring about certain kinds of excellence and freedom. I had never heard it articulated like that before, but it made perfect sense.
My brain immediately went to that movie, Million Dollar Baby. I love that flick! How much Eastwood’s character reminded me of my dad. My dad had been – for all intents and purposes – not just my father, mentor, and buddy, but my teacher and trainer. The boundaries he gave me helped me grow as a person and find a certain and beautiful kind of self-realization.
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My momma let me be who I was in other ways. She trusted me to amuse and take care of myself. She let me be a kid, giving me the room that I needed to grow.
A crucial part of my growth can be attributed to her. Too many – or the wrong kind – of boundaries can stifle things. My mom was a counter-balance. She saw in me my love for “the wide-open wander” [the root of the word “planet” is the Greek planan, to wander – jbk] and play. My childhood years were filled with ample room to dilly-dally, to explore sans restrictions, with trust.
This memory sums it up:
I was around 6 or 7, and mom and I were moving to a new place. We were in an old blue hatchback with my feet hanging out the window, the air outside warm and blowing past. Because we had just stopped at a strawberry stand along the road, my face and hands were covered with strawberry juice and seeds. Heart’s “Magic Man” was blasting on a cassette player – and my mom & I both sang to it. I stuffed another strawberry in my mouth, there in my own world. I remember her smiling at me.
Another one is this:
One night, my friend Ruth and I had just finished basketball practice. She came over to my house for dinner. We had been laughing uncontrollably about something. When we sat down at the table, it became clear that Lee was in no mood for laughter. So, shit got somber quickly…
Almost. Ruth – she’s always able to turn it off (like a switch). It’s impressive, a good skill to have. Me, not so much. Once the floodgate has opened, I can’t stop. And mom, she can’t either. She can be just as silly as me.
So: Ruth was stone faced, with laughter in her eyes. Mom was red-faced about to burst. And I was barely able to get food onto my fork!
Mom was with us in that way. Lee understood, even if he was miffed!
Trust is the big thing. My mom trusted that I could handle things, figure things out and find my way. She gave me room to do that.
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The line between what’s philosophical and what’s not is thin. We can find philosophy in just about everything, and equally, engage with (and in) the world as a philosopher might regardless of the activity or focus.
Maybe the sweet spot in philosophy would be for us to create environments where people can explore, examine, play with, try on, and experience the process and delight of creative, critical thinking. This sweet spot isn’t fixed or set in stone. It’s always changing, contextual, always in relation. In its most distilled sense, getting to the sweet spot is like finding the right balance between wildness and discipline.
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I’ve witnessed some evolutions in myself about what I think love entails. When I was younger, I focused on the big things like loyalty and duty. It’s easy to show up for those, responding to the world, raw and passionate. The big like that is badass.
But so are the little things – the trudges, the grind, seemingly insignificant things each day. These are a lot harder to show up for and to recognize. Doing that takes discipline. So they’re also badass.
When my dad and I used to swim in the ocean, we would swim out to the buoy and back. It was about a two mile round-trip. This was around the time of the movie Jaws. Once we got out to the buoy, my dad disappeared into the abyss leaving me to flap about in the water …
His vanishing was always followed by something predictably unpredictable – like … a leg grabbing from below! It was terrifyingly funny. We both got so much ridiculous joy out of it.
The ocean is big. Even if we can’t put words to it, we can feel it. But diving into an ocean from the shore doesn’t mean we’re able to navigate its currents or ride its waves. To do that, you have to be willing to show up day in and day out and learn the small things about the waters. You have to let yourself be taken by them so that they go deep.
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This is an installment of Into Philosophy
(& if you want to support Merlin CCC, please contact them!)
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