RESTORATION

Marjorie C. Skwire
3606 Eldorado Drive
Rocky River Ohio 44116

*“I know a farmer who says he has had the same ax his whole life—he only changed the handle three times and the head two times. Does he still have the same ax?” When I first read those words in Howard Mansfield's book, The Same Ax, Twice, I was fascinated by the philosophical problem they posed. *But my philosophizing soon gave way to reality when I found myself in the hospital just a few weeks later. Though I avoided having my “head” and “handles” replaced, I did find myself with an electronic implant to control my crazy heartbeat. I wondered how it would affect me. Would I still be the same person? For several weeks I asked that question. But a time came when I could say, “I feel like myself today.” It was then that I knew what restoration meant, at least within the context my life. I didn't have to be the same as before, but I had to feel myself—feel those aspects of my self which I consider to make me a unique person. Little things like enjoying a mystery story or finishing a crossword puzzle and larger things such as beginning to think of others instead of being incredibly self-absorbed. Restoration meant coming back toward the place where I was before, but with new experiences, new equipment and a new understanding of what makes me who I am. I don't know if I am the same, but I feel like myself, and right now that's good enough for me.

*As Unitarian Universalists, we have restoration in the bloodline from our Universalist forebears. Elhanan Winchester's work, Dialogues on the Universal Restoration, dating from 1788, is based on a passage from the book of Acts which promises a time of “restitution of all things.” This cornerstone belief of universal salvation convinced early Universalists that all things, all people, would eventually be restored to God. They were living in the dark shadows of Calvinism with its emphasis on the depravity of humans and the assurance of salvation for only a limited few. Restoration was God's plan of returning the world to its true creation, serving as a promise that no matter how sinful, difficult or broken their own lives were they would participate in “the final holiness and happiness of the entire race. . .” (Crispin, Universalism and Problems of the Universalist Church, Akron, 1888, p.13.)

Restoration is return. It is promise and hope. But it is also loss and change. It is something new, made out of the old, resembling it, but with a history of its own. It may be an ax with a new handle and head.

When does something restored cease to be the same object? If the farmer replaces only the handle, is it still the same ax? Or only the head? If the ax is a family heirloom traced back to George Washington—the very instrument used to cut down that oh-so-famous cherry tree—well-used by each succeeding generation, handle and head periodically replaced, would that make a difference? Consider Old Ironsides. Though it fought its last battle in l815, the warship still resides in Boston Harbor and is maintained in its original form. Rebuilt and repaired nine times in its history, approximately 80-90% of its structure has been replaced. Isn't it still the same ship? Or consider the Ise shrine in Japan. Rebuilt 61 times over 1300 years, it has not a fiber of the original wood and thatch, yet it lives in the hearts of the people as a 1300 year old monument. It is not a replica; it is the real thing.

Howard Mansfield answers the ax question this way:

So does the farmer have the same ax? Yes. . . . He possesses the same ax even more than a neighboring farmer who may have never repaired his own ax. To remake a thing correctly is to discover its essence.

A tool has a double life. It exists in the physical sense, all metal and wood, and it lives in the heart and the mind. Without these two lives, the tool dies. The farmer who restored his ax has a truer sense of that ax. He has the history of ax building in his hands. Museums are filled with cases of tools that no one knows how to use anymore. A repaired ax is a living tradition. (p.4)

Nothing makes me sadder than watching Antiques Roadshow and seeing toys in perfect condition, never played with and in their original boxes, assigned a value so much higher than beloved Teddy bears which show the evidence of use and affection. Those high-priced perfect antiques, in my mind, are not really toys at all, because no one has ever discovered their essence. I can't begin to remember the number of times I sewed on arms and legs, or restuffed favorite toys for my children. At some point over the past thirty years Baby Beans (so-called because she was stuffed with styrofoam beads) became Baby Polyfil, but I can assure you she was (and is) still the same beloved doll. Restoration is preserving the essence of a thing—its uniqueness and its special meaning.

When I started thinking about restoration, I knew that I needed to talk to some experts. Fortunately, in any Unitarian Universalist congregation one can find a multitude of experts. Ours is no exception. I first mentioned the topic to George, a retired engineer and life-long farmer. I asked him if he knew the story of the farmer and the ax. He didn't, but was intrigued by the philosophical problem. Then immediately he began talking about the tractor he had been rebuilding. George is the ultimate practical restorer. His approach is restoring the usefulness of an item and he does it very well. Aesthetics are secondary to restoring the function of an item, though George's careful work needs no apologies.

Another expert I consulted was Bruce, who heads the conservation department at the Art Museum. A few years ago I had the opportunity to tour the conservation department with him. When we walked into the studios the first item we saw was a recently acquired portrait by Franz Hals. As Bruce explained what was being done with the painting, I was startled. At some point during the history of the portrait a coat of arms had been painted into the upper right hand corner. It had not been a part of Hals' original work, but it had been a part of the painting for quite a long time. What startled me was that they were in the process of painting over the coat of arms. Bruce explained how the decision had been made. They wanted to restore the work so it appeared to viewers the way the artist had created it, but they did not wish to lose the history of the portrait. The decision was made to paint over with materials which could be readily removed at some future time. It's really a matter of mission, Bruce explained. The art museum's mission focuses on aesthetics. Should the painting, sometime in the future, be owned by a museum where history is prized more than aesthetics, the over-painting could be removed and the history revealed. Conservation seeks to preserve and stabilize a work of art. You can't always go back to the way the artist created it. What's important is preserving and respecting the essence of a work.

My third expert, Carol, is Archivist for the Orchestra. Carol provided an example of how when you can't go back to the original the best possible restoration may be a blending of the old and new. When renovations were being considered for the orchestra's hall, there was a desire to restore the lower level to its original purpose, a Motor Driveway where chauffeur-driven limousines and taxicabs could drive right into the building and deposit their concert-going passengers. However, environmental regulations today made this impossible; so a decision was made to preserve the past through archival photos showing how the lobby had once been used, and by displaying portions of the original tiled driveway through glass-covered holes in the lobby floor. Sometimes we cannot restore the original, but we can preserve memories.

Questions of restoration pervade Carol's work. How do we measure what people were once able to hear, both in person and on an original recording? Is it better to remove noise and remake a recording in digital format? Or just leave it alone and recognize that this is the way a 1940s recording sounds today? Which represents the real recording? And photos, can they be considered authentic if portions have been digitally restored? Carol told me, “I have a wonderful 1931 photograph of the Motor Driveway complete with footmen in livery, but there's a huge piece missing from the lower corner of the photo. Our publications department was able to digitally restore that corner. Now when we publish the photo it looks authentic, even though it isn't totally the real thing.”

It is not just farmers, conservators and archivists who are in the business of restoration. All of us are. When the pieces of our lives seem to be falling apart, we need to find the appropriate resources, tools, and materials to begin restoration. During a recent vacation school program we prepared an archaeological dig behind the church. One of the children's challenges was to try to reassemble a pot from the potsherds they found. A tedious but rewarding task. It's a wonderful symbol for restoring the brokenness of our lives. Some pieces will be lost forever; it will be difficult to determine where some pieces fit; some may stubbornly resist being glued in place; the finished product will resemble the original, but it will not be the original. The new creation will have additional history and meaning of its own, but it will retain the essence of the original pot and, one hopes, be able to function in similar ways. A restored pot may not be able to hold water, but it can hold a bouquet of dried flowers. It is identifiable as a pot and has aesthetic, historic and functional roles to play.

When things go wrong in our lives—grief, a crisis in health, a troubled relationship or a financial setback—we feel scattered, like potsherds at an archaeological site, a little bit here, a little bit there. In our anxious state, and in this age of quick fixes, we look around for someone to put the pieces back together for us. But, as Humpty Dumpty learned, that's not so easy. The very essence of an egg shell is fragility.

It is important for us to remember our essence. Changes may have occurred in our lives—changes from which there is no retreat. The ax handle and head may have been replaced, but behind those changes there is an essential person who has existed continuously since birth and will remain into the future. We need to rediscover that essential person.

Each event in our lives had its origins in the past and will carry us into the future. Life flows on, and each new tomorrow holds today and yesterday in its embrace. This is what process theologians mean when they speak of our human urge to enter into the future, to participate in the process of creation, to remake our world. We are not stuck in today, but are part of a continuity of life which gives us the opportunity to constantly renew ourselves. Like our Universalist forebears, we cherish the promise of restoration.

*I encourage you to pay attention to what is happening within you and around you. Rediscover your essence. Build connections with others. Find one small thing you can do to mend the world; and then do it. Offer a prayer of thanksgiving for what has been, what is and what will be. These are tools of restoration which we all have at hand. With them we can renew ourselves and our world.

Borden Award

Unitarian Universalist Association
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