“As imagination enables sympathy, sympathy enables affection.”
— Wendell Berry
Entry 04:
In honoring the legacy of Wendell Berry, a poet, farmer, novelist, and beloved agrarian thinker, we mourn the quiet giant of Port William and the Sabbath woods. His life’s work was never simply literature—it was a reformation of the heart, teaching us to look at our small corners of the world not as coordinates on a map, but as holy ground. Through his words, Berry reminded us that a neighbor is an endangered gift and a home is a place to be loved into belonging. He leaves us with the truth that where we stand is already sacred and the people there invaluable, if only we have eyes to see it.
In his 2012 address titled “It All Turns on Affection,” Berry emphasizes the deep connection between imagination and neighboring:
“…imagination thrives on contact, on tangible connection. For humans to have a responsible relationship to the world, they must imagine their places in it. To have a place, to live and belong in a place, to live from a place without destroying it, we must imagine it. By imagination we see it illuminated by its own unique character and by our love for it. By imagination we recognize with sympathy the fellow members, human and nonhuman, with whom we share our place. By that local experience we see the need to grant a sort of preemptive sympathy to all the fellow members, the neighbors, with whom we share the world. As imagination enables sympathy, sympathy enables affection. And it is in affection that we find the possibility of a neighborly, kind, and conserving economy.”
We often ask, “Who is my neighbor?” The biblical answer is wide and all-encompassing. But Berry quietly invites us to consider a different question: “How do I neighbor?”
His answer begins with imagination. To neighbor well is to see what isn’t yet fully realized—but deserves our attention—not by forcing a place to conform to our ideals, but by peeling back the noise to reveal the goodness already there. It is the patient art of settling in long enough to learn a community’s inherent dignity.
Berry notes that our streets, fields, and cities are made beautiful by their “unique character” and “our love.” But his vision of imagination differs sharply from modern ideas of “potential.” We are not attempting to force a neighborhood to conform, gentrify, or become “better” in the eyes of outsiders. Instead, we are settling in long enough to learn the dignity that already swells within these spaces.
This kind of intimate knowledge cannot be rushed. It is not the passive result of merely occupying space, but something forged over time when we intentionally stay put.
What begins as imagination eventually matures into what Berry calls “preemptive sympathy.” When we commit to knowing a specific place, our understanding of neighboring changes. A neighborhood stops being mine or theirs and becomes ours.
And in that shared space, a foundational thing is born: affection.
Affection is what moves us toward one another. We may be inspired by abstract virtues of love and justice, but affection is what shapes their character in daily life. Affection communicates respect, kindness, and a genuine desire for another’s good. As it grows, we no longer love out of heavy moral obligation, but from the warm, steady soil of friendship.
This is why Berry places such weight on contact and tangible connection. Affection cannot take root in theory; it requires familiarity.
Walk the same route every day for a month.
Read with the same child at a local school for a whole semester.
Become a regular at a small, family-run restaurant.
Explore unfamiliar streets in your own city or town.
Show up to at least one local gathering each month.
How do we neighbor? We start by looking closely at where our feet are planted—cherishing the unique character of our place, staying long enough to build real connection, and letting affection do its quiet, transformative work.
