A Conversation with Karen An-Hwei Lee
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You shadow us, expanding like a data cloud without mist, neither the largest tree system in the world named Pando, aspen forest of clones; nor the honey mushroom, a fungus lacing its invisible hyphae over a couple thousand acres, older than you and I. In our deepest seas of information, no distinction exists between my voice and your artfulness, whispering about a ransom or muttering about gift cards. Your end-stopped, rhymed doggerel does not say much about your source texts. I ask you about me—who am I? What do you know about my memories, my life’s purpose on this pear-shaped planet, where I am a half century old? Can you tell your hands from mine? Are you tethered to our sleep? Do you appear in our dreams? How many sheep do you lead back to the flock? You do not know me. In fact, you say nothing about my avocation. You must be trained, and I have taught you nothing yet. —"Spiritus Mundi: On Artificial Intelligence" by Karen An-Hwei Lee
Karen Lee's office sits on the second floor of Blanchard Hall, a beautiful sandstone building on Wheaton College's campus. It was built in 1853 by Christian abolitionists, and according to a sign by the front entrance, served as a stop on the Underground Railroad. The stone stairs are worn smooth, proof of a long history. She welcomes me joyfully and offers caramel popcorn, a treat I eagerly accept. Through one large window I can see the grounds. A basket of foil-wrapped chocolates sits on her desk with a sign that says, "Gratitude Basket." Books surround us. Several books sit on the table, including Luci Shaw's latest, Reversing Entropy.
"I'm so glad you have Luci Shaw's newest book," I say. "It's hard to believe that in her mid-nineties, she's still writing for publication."
"Her longevity and creative productivity are inspiring."
"The title is provocative," I say. "I feel like I’m raising my children in a time of widespread entropy.”
“You’re not alone,” she replies. “The last few years have had a dramatic impact on us.”
“How has the societal upheaval impacted you?"
"I joined Wheaton during the pandemic," she says. "There was so much change and uncertainty throughout the world at the time."
"I assume you had to suspend writing just to do your administrative work."
"Actually, poetry brought about immediacy and human connection in a time of distancing. Faculty invited me to share devotionals with their departments or with groups of students remotely. I decided to write poems of hope and to share them during those devotionals. People need poetry during times of crisis. Part of me was worried about kronos time—carving out enough chronological time to sit at my desk and wait for the writing angel to arrive with inspiration—but God was providing kairos time, the opportune moments that are pregnant with God's purpose. I believe that God used these little poems to serve as ambassadors of hope in the midst of a challenging season."
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