My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

 

William Wordsworth

 

Hurricane Matthew—a storm the size of Arizona, one newscaster called it—recently caused our normal routines to be drastically altered for almost a week. We did not evacuate so, for us, there was no displacement nor strange surroundings that always follow temporary uprootings. And gratefully, the storm was almost a non-event by the time it reached our area: the worst of it was winds gusting to 75 mph, causing some branches to litter the yard. Even the rainfall was a drop in the bucket compared to last October’s 1,000-year flood. We lost power for a few hours—a mere inconvenience in an otherwise blessedly dull denouement.

Wordworth’s poem keeps running through my head, not because there was a rainbow after Matthew lumbered beyond our coast line—there wasn’t one. Nor does the poem haunt me because I am headed into my “twilight” years and am hoping, much like Wordsworth, to be an aging person who would rather die than lose the capacity to have my breath taken away by God’s handiwork. It isn’t because of those last two lines, which seem to imply a desire for living fully in awe, appreciative for all the blessings of this physical sphere and for the elemental awareness in our DNA which points to the Father of the man, arriving as the most unlikely miracle of all: a helpless baby.

Nope. My Heart Leaps Up for none of those reasons. My Heart Leaps up for the only line I remember from college:  “The child is father of the man.”

 My father has been very sick. Over the last few months he has been in the hospital or in a rehab facility. He went in a grumpy old man. He came out someone I hardly even recognized.

 My dad. The optimist.

I don’t know how or why it happened, but somehow in the midst of his storm, he managed to find the bright side of life. In the midst of his storm—a Cat 4 that could have killed him—he found a rainbow.

And he’s not letting go of it. He is making adjustments in his lifestyle, and he is embracing those adjustments. He is cheerful. He gladly contributes to conversations. He laughs and jokes. He is appreciative. He is happily fighting his way back to health.

 As time goes by, he may slip back into the curmudgeon I know and love. But for now, my father’s heart leaps up, for the little things that bring him joy. A warm blanket. Lunch. A visit from someone. Another day of life. A trip to Disney World, for crying out loud.

 If that’s not God, I really have to wonder what is. And my heart leaps up for that.

Remember My Name

"Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." - William Shakespeare Twelfth Night

I am revisiting my earliest insecurities lately: I have breached the “100^th Query” ceiling in my submissions to literary agents, trying to get representation for my novel. I’m running out of agents and every “no” is an opportunity to remind the young child in me that I’m not good enough, that I don’t have what it takes, that my dream will never be realized. I will never achieve greatness.

Some part of me says that’s o.k. If my book never becomes successful, then I don’t have to deal with success. Oh well. I tried, I can tell myself. And that’s permission to keep on feeling bad about being me.

It’s one of the most basic human emotions. At our very core, every single last one of us wants to be remembered for something. We all want some part of ourselves to live beyond our life span, whether that means creating a child, or an idea, or an invention, a work of art or a book. It’s common knowledge that public speaking ranks above death on the fear factor scale, but on the iwanna scale, I believe the desire to be remembered for something great—beyond the reach of one or two generations—ranks above any other human desire. And that's not necessarily hedonism. That is just simple, elemental addiction to the belief that we will not pass this way again, and dammit, we want it to count for something.

From my own life, I can point to my single greatest accomplishment: my child. She is my opus and I am so proud of her I could bust a gut. She goes to college at the school  I chose to attend. I was keen to go there because it was a top-notch university that offered excellent training in my chosen field, and because a very dear friend was going there too. But it was expensive.

Mom and Dad scraped that tuition and room and board together though, and I packed my belongings and went there. For one year. I absolutely hated it, almost immediately. It was a very long year.

But because Mom and Dad had given me that opportunity, our daughter was able to attend the university of her heart's desire. She wouldn't have been able to go there without the university's legacy scholarship, awarded to her because I spent two miserable semesters at that institution.

Does that make Mom and Dad great? Does it get me remembered? Perhaps not. Beyond our daughter, the story is likely never to be told. History will probably not record that fascinating piece of higher education trivia. But it does make me feel like I made a difference. And I hope it makes my folks feel like they made a difference too.

And that IS the difference.

I truly believe that those who are born great, achieve greatness, or have greatness thrust upon them are mostly just following their hearts, trying to have an impact, hoping to make a difference. I believe these special people—people just like you and me—have a God-given passion that absolutely propels them to do a thing. They are ordinary bipeds who passionately pursue a dream without regard for the historical footnote. It is something they can’t not do. That is greatness, in and of itself. That is more greatness—if there is such a thing—than doing a thing just for the accolades.

That realization takes all the pressure off. It frees me to relentlessly follow the desires of my heart out of gratitude to God for the life and gifts I’ve been given, without regard for the footnote.  I can leave it to someone else to pass judgment on whether it was great or not.

As Patti LaBelle wisely notes in the song attached below, one of these mornings—it won’t be very long—they will look for me, and I’ll be gone. That’s really the only book I hope to see my name written in.
One of These Mornings

Etymology of Love

Does it ever cross your mind that, when you die, someone will probably search your computer’s web browser and find out all your nasty little secrets? All your weird little google searches and favorite pages…what would they find?

Before you post answers below about what you THINK I mean, let me clarify.

 

What subject would your computer records say interests you the most? Maybe most of your web searches are for vacation rentals. Maybe you google shoes. Recipes for diabetics. I don’t know. I can only answer for myself.

And for me, the answer would be “etymology of…”

I type it in several times a day, with different words. “Etymology of ‘licentious.’” “Etymology of ‘groovy.’” “Etymology of ‘etymology.’”

I am fascinated with words. I want to know where they came from, when they came into use, how the diagram tree breaks down, what part of speech they are, how they’re used in a sentence, and (have I already lost half of you??) their definitions—then and now. When I die, my computer will lay to rest the huge debate—finally—over whether I am, in fact, a nerd. (Noun, from the 1950s, origin unknown.)

I bring it up only because a member of my extended family--someone who means quite a lot to me—faces some new horizons soon. This person is scared about these new horizons. I use the word “scared” because change is frightening. But a better word might be “apprehensive,” which means anxious or fearful that something bad or unpleasant will happen.

So I typed in “etymology of apprehensive,” just to confirm that I had chosen the best word for this situation.

And because I’m a nerd.

The word actually hails from late Middle English (who knew? Right??!) So it’s been around a while, like a long while—since the 1400s. Our English word springs from the Latin word “apprehendere” and from the medieval Latin word “apprehensivus.” Along that same Medieval Latin timeline came the French word “apprehensif” (with an accent grave or aigu over that first “e”...sorry Miss Morgan, I forget my basic French). The word originally meant “to seize or to grasp.” The cool little diagram tree is pasted below for your enjoyment:

 

 

So if “apprehensive” really means to seize or grasp, as in without fear, as in wholeheartedly, as in with everything you got, then that puts a whole new spin on my family member’s new horizon. Apprehension is not fear and loathing. It isn’t that little sick burp you taste in your mouth when you’re so nervous you’re afraid you might puke. Apprehension is quite the opposite, apparently. Something to be pursued.

So I was wrong about that. Wonder what else I was wrong about. About which I was wrong.

Could my definition of “horizon” also be erroneous? I wondered. Maybe “horizon” doesn’t mean boundlessness. Maybe that’s the wrong word to use for my family member’s new horizons. Better check….

I typed in “etymology of horizon” and damned if I didn’t miss that one too. The original definition was not what I expected. Again, just the opposite. Horizon meant “limiting.”

Hmmm. Square One again. I thought I knew more about this stuff. Maybe I should search the etymology of “knowitall.”

Isn’t a horizon something to pursue? Isn’t a horizon something to be seized, and grasped?! Something to charge into with verve, as if everything depended on getting that thing for yourself? Something of excitement, and value, and warm fuzzies and Darius Rucker singing, “It’s awlright”?

Apparently not in late middle England.

Then I remembered something I read while researching my novel. It’s a quote from William Penn, founding father of the Pennsylvania colony back in the late 1600’s. It is also a funeral prayer: the time when most of us feel our saddest, as if everything has been lost. Hopelessness and grief crowd out everything else.

Penn said:

“We give back to you, O God, those whom you gave to us. You did not lose them when you gave them to us, and we do not lose them by their return to you. Your dear Son has taught us that life is eternal and love cannot die. So death is only an horizon and an horizon is only the limit of our sight.”

A horizon is only the limit of our sight. We can’t see around that bend, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t something wonderful waiting for us there.

There’s so much hope in that, don’t you think? That just because we can’t see around the curve, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there, ready to be seized, welcoming us, and offering so much more than we could ask or imagine? Horizons, then—those  limited views of ours—are  something to charge into, to chase apprehensively, to seize and grasp without fear and trepidation. With everything you’ve got.

So to my family member, I say, Grab your future. I love you. I know what you're capable of. Of what you are capable.

 

I'll see you around that bend.

Introversion Aversion

In the '60s when I grew up, it was difficult not to be an introvert. We were told to use our inside voice when my sister and I sat in church, whispering and tee-heeing in the pew while the minister droned on, and on, and on.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself," was Mom's response when I commented that a lady smelled bad.

On our annual vacation to Myrtle Beach the Big Event was getting dressed up for dinner at a fancy seafood restaurant--gloves, patent leather shoes and all--and I was told to be quiet and sit still.

Children. Seen. Not heard.

People say the '60s were about revolution, challenging conventional wisdom, and letting it all hang out. Not from where I sat, on my little chair, with my legs crossed, and my hair in a swing cut, parted on the side and barretted in place like a big stupid doll. As a child in the '60s, I can honestly say the only revolution that took place in my corner of the world was when I did a little twirl from the runway of Miller's Department Store fashion show.

I didn't like that either.

To make it worse, I was taught a charming tune early on, from the movie, "Annie Get Your Gun." Sing along with me if you know it: "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you." If you don't know the song, or need reminding, click on the link below:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WO23WBji_Z0

To me, that song was a fun little game about how really and unequivocally untalented I was, compared to only everyone else. I was 6, for crying out loud. I really couldn't do anything better than anyone. It was confirmation that there was always going to be somebody bigger, taller, prettier, stronger, funnier, nicer, smarter and meaner than I am. So why bother?

I didn't. And AS an introvert, that was fine by me.

There were times, of course, when I wanted to stand out, be noticed, or even just be heard. But my inside voice kept telling me to keep my thoughts to myself, that children should be seen and not heard. Years of practicing that habit just made me an older introvert who was, ironically, very, very good at being just that.

Finally. I had excelled at something. But nobody noticed, thank God.

So I have been my own best and worst friend, for most of my life. But two books I've recently read have helped me rethink that paradigm. Not to change into an extrovert, necessarily--just to be more accepting of who I am, and more eager to not let my own fears limit who I want to be, and who I can be. The first book is Quiet, The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain. The second book is The Sixth Extinction, An Unnatural History by Elizabeth Kolbert.

Quiet helped me own my own introverted virtues. Believe me, contemplativeness is definitely a virtue, especially in a world that won't stop talking. The Sixth Extinction helped me understand that it really isn't all about me. There's a much bigger thing happening out there, and all of us--intros and extros--need to just get over it.

There is no changing your basic personality, and frankly, how many of us really want to? I will always be an introvert. I'm good with that. But I can choose not to let that label limit me. I can choose to do some "extroverted" things. I can decide not to be afraid. I can take criticism, because no one is perfect, least of all me. I can allow myself to fail, and notice that I'm still alive. So much of the beauty in humans is in the failure, and the getting back up again. The try, try, try until I may never succeed, but keep trying nonetheless, and keep moving beyond the limited view I have created for myself.

"I can do anything better than you can." The song still rolls around in my mind, but these days I change the lyrics to suit my purposes: I can do anything better than I can. Who can do me better than I?