A Cathedral of the Mind: Sustaining the Arts Through Community

How do we continue when support feels fragile, feels distant? For some people, literature isn’t important. Supporting poetry isn’t important. But for me, walking up this hill is everything.

What does it mean to care about the existence of a literary organization? I remember a few years back, a friend of mine and I were meeting with Eric Lorberer of Rain Taxi Review, a fellow literary nonprofit based out of Minneapolis. My friend said, “Everyone loves Rain Taxi.” As a Minneapolis resident, for her, that seemed like a given.

Eric said, “But do they? If they did, they would put ads in it, they would subscribe, or they would donate.” With a focus on book reviews and interviews, Rain Taxi champions aesthetically adventurous literature, work that is often overlooked. Their budget is less than $200,000 annually, which means they are running a tight ship.

In 2021, Rain Taxi reviewed a book we published that didn’t get the attention it deserved. I loved this book, The Likely World, which focused on a woman struggling with addiction while raising a child. First, because I thought that raising kids is difficult enough without an addiction issue and a dangerous ex-spouse, but also because in many ways, her addiction mirrored my own obsession with running Red Hen. Without the press, my whole life would have been so much simpler—writing, paying bills, raising a family, and being human all would have been easier. But the press required constant fixation to keep it afloat. I related to the madness of the protagonist, and, like her, I had to continue marching on.

Why do we keep going in spite of obstacles? How do we continue when support feels fragile, feels distant? Red Hen is my purpose, but like Eric, I think about what it’s like to want to summon more champions into the room.

Once, when I went to see my mother, we climbed a mountain above the tree line. It was Mount Monadnock, a massive peak in New Hampshire. Partway up, a thunderstorm began, bringing rain and lightning. My mother, already haggard-looking in the eerie lightning, said, “Once you have begun a thing, it is fatal not to finish it.” We climbed to the top and started coming down in the rain to the crack-crack of lightning hitting the rocks. She was slow.

“Leave me up here,” she said.

I, too, believed in finishing a thing. I took my mother off that mountain.

This sense of hiking through the storm is my approach to the press, too, but getting a conversation going about a book is harder than ever, considering the other noise in our culture. Even those authors who have hit the ground running—like Luke Goebel or Rebecca Chace—still have to fight for review space. Poetry is even harder to get into people’s hands. We have a book in Spanish and English coming out from William Archila, an El Salvadoran poet, who walks through the world quietly; I don’t know how many people will have the exquisite experience of his gentle footfalls across their kitchen floor.

Publishing poetry isn’t easy without funding from the NEA, the NEH, and the Poetry Foundation, but we continue because it is important. We believe in the work we’re doing.

But Eric made a good point about those who praise Rain Taxi: do you like it in concept, or do you really want it to survive?

I feel the same way about Red Hen Press. Words of affirmation are one thing, but tangible support is another, and we need that support to keep the wheels turning. I have been dazzled by our staff as we have navigated the crisis of decimated arts funding. Their attitude has been clear. Keeping the bills paid and lights on month after month feels like a victory. The staff is with us, and I am impressed with their loyalty in the face of these challenging times.

When I was growing up in the cult, we learned a lot about the building of the Christian churches, and I was interested in the construction of cathedrals. Germany’s grand Cologne Cathedral required the participation of the whole city, and in my classes, they made a big point about everyone participating. We all had to carry wood and take care of the animals in the afternoon, so maybe their lesson was a hint to us that we needed to be ready to participate in work.

But the part we didn’t learn was that the Cologne Cathedral took 632 years to build. That’s many generations of laborers, of dreamers. I like to think that by the time Red Hen is a second-generation press, it will have grown into a stronger, sturdier organization. We are taking firm steps, like building a new website, but I’m also working hard to build a stronger support network. I like to imagine that right around the corner, there are thought partners—those with expertise in marketing, finance, and law—ready to join our board and help us get to the next stage. I feel sure that this spring, we will find these helpers.

For some people, literature isn’t important. Supporting poetry isn’t important. But for me, walking up this hill is everything. Like Eric, I need others to walk with me. I need help. I used to think asking for help was a bad thing, a weak thing. Now, I’m not so sure. If you are reading this, and you have some good ideas, I’m ready for them. I’m ready to talk, to learn, to listen. I’m on the East Coast, and I’ll meet anyone anywhere, in a coffee shop, in a bar, in a clearing in the woods, in a field.

In my wildest visions for the press, I want a crowd of champions in the room, each with a different skill set to help us build our cathedral of the mind.