How I Made Peace With my Last Name

“They are a generous and warm-hearted people and these traits must have belonged to their ancestors from the earliest times.”

-A few words by Richard Foley on the O’Heffernan family, from the biography of 18^th-century poet Liam Dall O’Heffernan*

It’s the second day of lessons and the professoressa at the front of the room is calling roll.  The last names of the other students roll gracefully off of her tongue, beautiful, melodic Italian names with vowels to spare.  It’s all a, e, i, o, u—sounds that gently leave her lips and flit around for a second like butterflies before gracefully disappearing.

But it happens when she starts to call the “F” names, suddenly I am conscious of my heart beat in my chest.  By the time she reaches “G,” my heart is racing and I realize that I have a death grip on my pen.  Is the room suddenly really warm or is that just me?  And when I see a brief look of puzzlement on her face, there is a pause.  I know that she has arrived at my name.  There is no vowel at the end, no easy place for your tongue to gently leave the word.  That could probably be forgiven if it weren’t for the horribly breathy H+e combination at the very beginning.  It’s a cursed pairing of letters, something terrible, an arrangement so frightening in the Italian language that it can only be read with a down-turned, uncertain scowl and inevitably followed by a markedly pronounced question mark.

“Eeeef-fer-NAWN?  erEEN Eeeef-fer-NAWN?”

Timidly, I lower my eyes and raise my hand and in the littlest voice I can find…

“si.”

Yes.  I’m here.

Likely, the reality of the situation is that everyone is staring at their phones, not paying any attention at all to me—but I can’t help but feel as if all eyes are on me and all ears on that name.  I feel exposed, my foreignness laid bare.  I’m not from around here, my name announces proudly to anyone that is even a little bit listening.  Once again, my last name has betrayed me.  I just want to hide.

Having an unpronounceable last name makes even simple tasks difficult.  Signing for a package from the FedEx guy?  Forget about it.  When you pronounce the name you just signed, he gives you a look of profound confusion.  Making reservations for something?  Don’t bother—better to use someone else’s name or better yet make up a fake one.  And God forbid you should have to spell out your email address.  Excuse me, but do you have an hour and a half to discuss this?

And for months (maybe even years at this point), I have been secretly trying on other people’s last names in the way that other people try on sweaters.  How much easier would it be a Rossi? Bianchi? Innocenti?  I picture myself walking around, randomly introducing myself to strangers on the street, for the pure ease of it all!  How lovely it could be! Si, tanto piacere!  But something feels un-genuine about appropriating other people’s names.  After all, a last name with no past is like a tree without roots.  Not to mention, it’s creepy.

So I decided that if I must be branded with this name, if it is bound to follow me, stamped on passport no matter how far I travel—maybe I should learn to embrace it.  And so I started to learn.

As it turns out, “Heffernan” or an alternative spelling “Hiffernan” both derive from an old Irish Gaelic family name, “Ua h-Ifearnain,” a name which I had to copy letter for letter out of the pages of a book* because it looks so dreadfully and delightfully foreign.  It possibly comes from the Gaelic word meaning “horse-lords” or more interestingly, “spawns of Hell.”  It’s an ancient name too, which appears in the written records for the first time in 1047* (!!!!!).

And trying to sift through names of people and places I can scarcely understand or recall, grappling to pin down long-gone, forgotten societies of which I know nothing, I realize that history is multi-leveled and multi-layered.  And it makes me feel fragile to settle with the fact that my blood and my genes, the fabric of me, my eventual existence all hang in the balance of these other lives and loves and kings and wars, twists and turns that are so far beyond my grasp.  1047 is a long time before my great-great-great grandfather, John Heffernan arrived in America in the 1850s and an even longer time before I am sweating in a classroom in Italy, embarrassed by the inevitable unpronouncibility of my name, returned to the Old World, but not quite back to the country that John Heffernan fled all those years ago, a place he would hardly recognize now.

But out of lists and names and counties and anecdotes, there emerges in my study the eternal constant of change hard at work.  There is movement of people facing war or political exile or famine, re-emerging and re-settling, loving and living and fighting and doing it all over again the next generation.  And in the New World, the blood of those “generous and warm-hearted” folks would meet blood from other reaches of the world and somehow the outcome (or more accurately another intermediary form) is me, me and this name, surviving long beyond all those poets or scholars or horse-lords or whatever.  And I take comfort knowing that it will surely out-live me too, that I am but a single chapter in a greater narrative. 

And looking at all this movement and change over the centuries, I can’t help but wonder how many Ua h-Iefearnains and O’Heffernans and Hiffernans have shared my experience of being a stranger with a strange name.  Certainly a whole generation did with the anglicizing loss of the “O,” signaling the eventual loss of the entire Gaelic language.  Certainly John Heffernan did when he arrived as an Irishman in a country that remained hostile towards the Irish immigrants, fleeing a desperate famine.  And I come to understand that this bastardized pronunciation is only the most recent development in an unfathomably complicated story. Names, like the humans they designate, are not fragile, static things.  They don’t sit on shelves or hang on walls or rest undisturbed for centuries—they are malleable, changeable and most of all transportable.  And in carrying this name with me, I am part of a noble tradition.

And after all, erEEN Eeeef-fer-NAWN, it has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

---------

*I’m drawing from a book called The Heffernans and their Times: A Study in Irish History written by Dr. Patrick Heffernan.  Thanks to my Dad for sharing it with me and for generally being a great source of Heffernan history.

**I'll also add that the professore eventually settled on calling me by my first name, a benevolent gesture sparing everyone involved a lot of frustration.

On Light and Darkness

On my recent visit to Lecce, I really fell in love with the leccese baroque style of architecture.  What Baroque things I see in Florence or in Rome have tended to overwhelm me and to make me want to run and hide, escaping into a room of Renaissance order or Medieval stylized predictability.  But in Lecce, everything was elegant but somehow less aspirational, more content just to exist or to be admired or to decay, whatever the universe might mandate for that particular day.  For this traveller, it gave a sense of ease to everything in the city.

The most beautiful place I visited was the Basilica of Santa Croce, one of the city's treasures, and I went back several times during my stay to reflect and meditate and spend a few uninterrupted moments being awe-struck.

One particular evening, I lit a candle and placed it on the metal tree and sat down to reflect in the peace of the moment.  When I looked up again, I realized that the fragile flame had gone out completely.  I frowned and stood up, re-lit the candle and returned to where I had been sitting, watching my candle and the others around it flicker, restlessly on the verge of going out.

The problem, I quickly realized was that I had chosen the most inopportune place in the church to try to light my candle.  Only a few feet away, an open door was letting cool, clean air into the church and a persistent breeze was teasing and toying with the small fires, threatening to put them out.  Meanwhile, on the other side of the basilica, far from the outside world and under the gaze of a beaming Madonna, another set of candles was burning brightly, proudly and without difficulty.

However, being a restless soul, my focus stuck on the vulnerable little fires in my chosen spot, struggling just to stay a-light: now flickering, now nearly out, now re-kindling to burn twice as bright.  Bending and leaning, it was a deadly dance, a chiaroscuric tango, a visible struggle between the light and the darkness.

It drew my attention to my own fragile spirit and how, as a traveler and a human, I am often leaving my own candle in wind-swept places.  Because trying to have a compassionate heart and a sense of hope in a world where so many people are hurting and suffering, where there is so much inequality is something like trying to light a candle in the wind--everything is against it.  To try to find the best, without denying the worst, can be a heart-wrenching task.  And with hope, as with candles, there are moments when it flickers and fades.  Yet just when you think it has finally gone out for good, it comes back with a vengeance, burning twice as bright.

But as rough as the constant back-and-forth can be, the un-examined alternative is less appealing still.  I think of what it means to hide in the quiet part of the church--to burn brightly without doubt and struggle. For me, this is to live, consciously or unconsciously, in denial of the world's realities, which are decidedly not all Madonnas and cherubs and vaguely-inspired upturned glances.

Not being satisfied any other way, I will likely continue to light my candles in all the literallytheworst places that I can find, in defiance of all comfort and good sense.  I will continue to flirt with the darkness and to let myself be haunted by all the uncertainties, doubts and contradictions of the world. After all, seeking refuge in the moral and intellectual quiet corner was never really my style.

And despite my best efforts, I know that my flame will never calm itself, that it will continue to flicker and fade when the wind comes to call, as it inevitably does.  But I will try to console myself that at the moments when the flame is at its lowest point, about to be extinguished for good, it's only a second away from coming back twice as bright.

I don't know who is in control here, but it certainly isn't me....

Some people believe that they have guardian angels watching over them.  I believe something like that, but maybe the opposite.  If I have a guardian angel, I suppose he has my best interests at heart (evidence: I am still alive), but sometimes I question his methods.  Because there are moments occasionally when I start to think that I have everything in life figured out, that I have it all down. On days like this, I stroll confidently around, knowing that I am that girl, the one who has everything under control.

And it is in moments like these that I inevitably feel my foot falling into a crack in the cobblestones as I'm walking along and I know that I am powerless to prevent what is about to happen.  And I fall down.  On my face.  In the middle of the street.  In front of dozens of people.

Humility is certainly something that the world could use a bit more of and at moments, it certainly feels like there is someone out there making sure that I have my fair share. (That thing about falling on my face, that's not a metaphor, by the way.)

But I admit that sometimes these not-so-subtle reminders are needed.  Because occasionally I decide, in my own mind, for whatever reason, that I personally run the world.  I see rain in the forecast and (ever the optimist) I decide that it will not rain today. I decide to travel to a new town, which I have never visited before because, despite all indications to the contrary, it is going to be beautiful today.  Being something of an over-confident traveler, I also decide on this particular day that I instinctively know how to arrive to the city center from the train station and that I do not need to ask for directions.  (Anyone who knows me well or has ever traveled with me knows that there is absolutely ZERO precedent in my life to indicate that I instinctively know the way anywhere.  Not ever.  Not one single time.)

And that is how I somehow end up wandering a deserted street of trulli in Alberobello, by myself, in the pouring rain.  My shoes are wet, my rain coat has completely soaked through and I am surrounded by this charming, miraculous beauty which I have all to myself.  It would be absolutely magical--if I weren't so incredibly miserable.

Uhm...hello....is anybody there?  Anybody?

So I duck under the porch on someone's delightful little holiday house, as the rain pours sideways, soaking me even more and I ask myself, what sane person would do this?

And the universe answers back to me, only a completely insane person would find themselves in this situation.

So I take a moment to evaluate my own actions over the past twenty-four years that have led me up to this exact time and place and suddenly everything becomes clear.  Yes, completely insane, that sounds about right.

And at a moment like this, all I can do is laugh: at this place, at this rain and mostly at myself.

Laugh and promise myself an extra glass of wine at lunch (if I ever find lunch).

And pray that someone will sell me dry trullo-themed socks.

And remind myself that humility is certainly something the world could use a bit more of.

In the end, it did turn out to be a beautiful day.  So maybe I was right after all?

Alberobello and I parted on good, if soggy, terms.

Yellow Leaves

I was stopped in my tracks the other day by the first tree with yellow leaves.  I just stood there as we confronted each other-- me with all my preconceived notions of what a tree should look like during the month of August, it with its own defiant existence speaking for itself.

In that moment, I was so surprised by the sudden change that I had not yet built up my own existential defenses.  And I've been trying this whole time to put a label on the feeling that assaulted me in that moment when I had my guard down.  It was something like awe-- seeing the power of nature in its earliest moment of visible change.  But it was also something like dread, the yellow leaves having always been for me something of a memento mori.  At the same time, it was something like joy, a looking forward to scarves and new olive oil and young wine.  But it was also a deep, lamenting sadness, knowing that the days of tingling sunshine warmth on bare skin are numbered.  And so I found myself standing dumb-founded in the piazza like an idiot, laid emotionally bare at the sight of a single tree, with this almost-awe, almost-dread, almost-sadness, almost-joy coming together in an aching knot in the pit my stomach.

I speculate that I find myself so defenseless, so powerless in the face of the onset of the Fall because I grew up in place where the fluctuation of seasons was minimal.  When the variety of seasons ranges from not-that-cold to warm to hot to inferno, the changing of the leaves is less dramatic and the change in temperature and life even less so.  Although I grew up coloring pictures of yellow leaves as backdrops for turkeys and pumpkins, I did not so much recognize them in the world around me and so I don't yet take this endless, beautiful cycle of death and re-birth for granted.

In the moment when those yellow leaves entered my consciousness and I was feeling in my gut and in my bones that wrenching and releasing, I was somehow feeling how many times this moment, this breathless moment at the cusp of two seasons, had existed without me here to witness it and how many times it will continue to exist when I am long gone.  And in confronting these yellow leaves, I am standing face-to-face with how little this whole system has to do with my own wishes and desires, how little control I have and that ultimately, I am but a single, microscopic piece of something incomprehensibly bigger than myself.

I can't help but think that this is all good preparation for the day when I will wake up and again be stopped in my tracks by the yellowing of my own leaves.  I hope that I will remind myself of and take consolation in the beautiful, fiery Fall landscapes and the abundance of the autumnal harvest.   And when the yellow leaves of my own Autumn yield to the brown of Winter, as they inevitably do, I hope I'll remember how equally inevitably, the brown of Winter always yields to the fresh, hopeful green of Spring.

On Flight

Looking at the top side of clouds

My earliest memory of flight is seen from the pilot's seat: all knobs and buttons and windows, soaring above the ground, blue sky as far as the eye can see.  Sometimes when I think back, I see little parachuters in the sky in front of me, dancing like fearless ballerinas (although I'm fairly certain that this part was imagined and melded together with the real memories by time).  My Dad owned a little plane and we would go flying together, just the two of us, landing at the tiniest air fields around Oklahoma and Texas, always just in time to enjoy the warm, corn frittery goodness known as hush puppies for lunch.  (On a side note, my now-health-nut-militant-vegan Father probably laments that in addition to instilling in me a love of flight, he also instilled in me a love for all things battered and fried.)

I think that, having less life experience then, I didn't realize what a sheer miracle flight is.  As children, we are so near to a state where everything is totally novel and mystifying that nothing seems impossible.  Even gravity, that magical force that binds our world together, seems less obvious, less guaranteed, less taken-for-granted in those years.

But now that I'm older, I learned to be skeptical and I have so many doubts.  Like why should this huge metal tube be able to go hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles per hour?  Nowadays, this is the thing that seems less obvious to me.  If I had been less resistant to learning physics, I could probably explain to you that the air on top of the wing is moving faster than the air on the bottom and blah blah blah.  But in this case, I'm happy to simply be enchanted by this beguiling trick of movement and matter and lift.  I'm content to remain blissfully mystified.  Because what other emotion can you experience in the face of something as beautiful as flight?

We go up and up and up and the ground gets so small--first the cars look like toy cars and then they disappear completely.  I always picture all my problems and anxieties diminishing like that too.  If only for an hour or two, I see everything in perspective.

And then suddenly a burst and we are inside the clouds and with a second burst, we are above them!  We are seeing something incredible: the top sides of clouds and the landscape below is replaced by cloud mountains and cloud rivers and cloud castles.  This, for me, never gets old.

And for some reason, at this point in the flight, I always start to think about Leonardo da Vinci and his flying contraptions half-a-millennium ago.  And I wonder what he would give to trade places with me, right in this moment, to be able to see the top side of the clouds.

And I remember a particular spot, on the hillside of Fiesole, where there is a plaque commemorating how he would throw his apprentices, strapped into who-knows-what crazy flying machine, sending them tumbling into the valley below.  I especially wonder about those apprentices and what it must have been like for them, thunk thunk thunk down the hill in the name of curiosity.  But I think that surely at some point, one of them must have caught some lift, or at least hit the wind in just the right way and realized that, like anything in life, the thing that makes it scary is also the thing that makes it magnificent.  The climbing, the weightlessness, the nothing between you and the ground, the simultaneous possibility and impossibility of falling.  I hope that for all that they went through, they caught some taste of this breathlessness.

And I think of my own descent on my most recent trip, falling into a startling sunrise sky above Paris.  A layer of solid grey clouds above, a layer of thin wispy grey clouds below and in between the most fiery, passionate, soul-awakening red sky I have ever seen.  And here I am right with them: the weightlessness, the nothing between me and the ground, the simultaneous possibility and impossibility of falling.  In a word: breathlessness.

An Ode to Tuscan Bread

Oh, pane toscano,
Most unassuming of all the breads,
Teach me to be more like you!
You enter a meal without expectations
You come without even thinking to cover your plainness with a little salt
And you present yourself fearlessly and unapologetically,
exactly as you are, for all to see.
You are beguiling in your guilelessness-- without secrets or surprises
And in this too-rapidly-evolving world of constant change,
You stand alone in your unrelenting commitment to simplicity
And the world as it once was.
And because of that raw simplicity and pure candor,
you are a friend to all!
Leftover spicy tomato sauce?
That last bit of truffle?
They are not too strong or too overwhelming for you!
Where other breads seek only to compete or to conquer,
You accept everyone exactly as they are
And you are as complimentary as you are complementary.
You take fragrant oils and fegato
And help them to reach their very best
And it is because of you that we get to perform that essential nightly ritual
of fare una scarpetta.
By bringing all the flavors of a meal together,
Like a dozen voices singing in harmony,
You remind us that life is too short to disagree,
Yet you humbly decline to accept any of the credit
For a meal much-enjoyed.
Oh, Tuscan bread, most constant, un-changing dinnertime companion
Though those who don't understand you will judge you for your plainness
And cry out that you are too basic, too restrained, too boring
I hope that you will scarpetta those haters, right out of your path
Because it is you, you perfect loaf of bread, you
That prove, beyond a doubt,
That at least when it comes to salt,
Sometimes less really is more.

I'll Take It!

It's standing-room only on this maledetto bus to Siena.  Unanticipated, crowded and packed because the train conductor is at home instead of on a train.  The old man next to me is not happy about this arrangement.  Giuseppe is his name and, upon finding out that I am a Floridian, he tells me that he has visited Jacksonville, Florida...twice ("Jacksonville...Volkswagon,...Panama Canal...Hamburg" is what he says in explanation, nodding knowingly as if this clarifies everything.  I'm confused, but I don't press the issue.). And he will go on to explain to me that this bus is miserable, this holiday is miserable, this country is miserable...and maybe he's right.

"You like Italy?" He asks me.

"Ma, certo," I respond.

"Well you can have it, take it, it's yours."

And while I'm glad to have his permission, in some ways, I already have.

Because a city or a country is a bit like a person.  You don't get just the good parts, you get all of it: flaws and tears and frustration--all of it.  Because Italy isn't only spaghetti alla carbonara and Chianti wine and cannoli and rolling hills and scenic beaches and a stroll in the piazza in the evening.  It's also 3 days to dry your jeans and no direct trains on holidays and Silvio Berlusconi and  "is this bus ever actually going to arrive?" and waiting for hours to get your permit at the immigration office and no direct answers and no certainty about anything...not ever.

But at some point, you find yourself falling into this rhythm and you console yourself that you don't really need dry jeans anyway and you scold your friend for wearing sandals in March and you learn to deal with the uncertainty as some sort of perpetual, unanticipated adventure-game (or at least you hope that all these lessons in patience are somehow making you a better person).  And of course you eat your spaghetti and drink your wine and stroll in the piazza in the evening whenever possible.

And just like that particularly frustrating person that you can't help but adore, in spite of how crazy they make you (or perhaps because of how crazy they make you) you love Italy and you hate it and love to hate it and, at the end of the day, you hate to love it as much as you do.

And when Giuseppe on the bus says "take it..."  You say to yourself "Well yes, I think I will...."

Volentieri.

Why You Need Friends Who Disagree With You

"It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain an idea without accepting it."

-Aristotle

"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself."

-Leo Tolstoy

I have a friend, someone I have known for many years, with whom I have a few very fundamental disagreements about how the world works, or, at least, how it should work: politically, morally, intellectually.  A few times throughout the course of our friendship, she has said things, not on purpose, that stung, things that made my blood boil, things that made me want to scream.  One time, I got carried away in anger, lashed out at her and her beliefs and we both ended up sulking, brooding and hurting, over our margaritas and half-priced appetizers at, of all places to be having a serious discussion, the bar at TGI Fridays.

I'm usually an extremely easygoing person and my reaction and inability to cope with the situation at that moment surprised even me.  Even though it was not intentional, the words she said had hurt me and I was blinded by an instinctive emotional response and unable to think clearly.  Needless to say, it was not one of my prouder moments.  I will not delve any further into the details of the discussion because, honestly, it would only be a distraction from what the real conversation here is about.

The point is that we all have opinions about how the world works (or at least, how it should work) and some of these opinions and beliefs, for whatever reason, strike us down to our very core.  Maybe we feel that these issues are somehow deeply tied to our own lives or we have watched the struggle of our family and friends against a system that is unfair, unjust, un-right.  Maybe we feel that the safety of our family or our job or our values or our very way of life is at stake.  And when somebody doesn't agree with us, it offends not only some vague "idea" that we hold, but also the very center of who we are.  It is not just our ideals at stake, but ourselves.  I don't know what this issue is for you: gun control, gay marriage, the environment, abortion, immigration, healthcare--for whatever reason, these things become so deeply embedded with our individual identities, that they can blind us.

It's okay to be engaged, it's okay to have strong feelings and it's okay to be hurt, but it's wrong to attack someone else for their beliefs.  It's equally wrong to diminish that person as a human for their beliefs or to write them off as stupid or hateful or ignorant just because their worldview does not align with yours.  

I have heard people nonchalantly say that they judge their future friendship with people they just met based on their political party affiliation on Facebook.  I have heard people, on both sides of the aisle, proudly touting their partisan-ism, saying that they don't think they could ever have a serious conversation, let alone be friends, with someone who disagrees with them on this issue or that issue.  And I have three words for those people: shame on you.  Can we now reduce a nation of people to just one of two categories? "Republican" or "Democrat." "Conservative" or "Liberal." "Right" or "Left." "With Me" or "Against Me," that is, "Right" or "Wrong" depending on your point of view.

An inability to empathize and understand beyond your own narrow worldview (and, compared to the whole realm of human experience, our worldviews are necessarily narrow) is not something to be proud of but rather, in my opinion, a symptom of both moral and intellectual weakness.   It may be true that there are some people in the world who are "evil," who are working against the better interests of humanity and using this philosophy or that philosophy to justify their malicious intent.  But to automatically consign to that category our friends, family, neighbors, co-workers who disagree with us is nothing but an excuse for our own inability to engage and empathize. Moreover, it is an act of cowardice, yes, cowardice, and nothing less.  I'm not sure what about civil discourse has become so intimidating and so unfashionable.  Are we scared of our own vulnerability in a world that is much bigger than we are?  Are we afraid of growth?  Change?  Are we afraid that we might have to acknowledge that this issue and, therefore, the world, is not simply as black and white as we imagined?  "Gray" is ambiguous and, moreover, terrifying.  And it takes an awful lot of courage and strength to stand face-to-face with the uncertainty of the gray area.

If we take a moment to consider the situation, to account for the complexity of the world and the diversity of the American (and the greater human) experience, we wouldn't find it so crazy that someone else, given the same information, could draw a different conclusion.  If you are going to demand that someone walk a mile in your shoes, you better be willing to walk a mile, or even two, in theirs.

Which brings me back to the bar and the margaritas and TGI Fridays.  After a few very tense and awkward minutes of un-constructive, but much-needed sulking, we started the conversation again with a more conciliatory and re-conciliatory approach.  Neither of us had changed our views, but together we changed the tone. We discussed why this conversation was painful and, more importantly, we actually listened to what the other person had to say, not with the aim to refute, but to understand.  It was not an easy conversation, but it was a productive one.  It was useful not in the sense that either of us managed to change the other person's mind or that someone "won" the debate, but in the sense that we were both able to walk away with a better understanding of the other person's experience.  

Civil discussions are like good friendships and relationships in that they should not be treated like a zero-sum game, where there has to be a winner and a loser and nothing in between.  Rather, there should be some give-and-take, tempered with understanding in a way that ensures that both people are able to grow, or better yet, flourish.

Will my dear friend and I ever agree on this particular issue?  I recognize that neither of us, no matter how many times we have this conversation, is likely to change her mind and I accept that fact.  And with that acceptance, I release any pressure "to win" and start to focus on what I can learn.  My friend, after all, is an extremely intelligent and compassionate young woman and there is still so much that I can learn from her, that we can learn from each other.  Most importantly, when tempers have cooled and margaritas are finished, I realize how deeply I value her insight and friendship in my life.

Ultimately, as individuals, we do not have much control over all these "big questions" that our 21st-century society is in the process of answering and we have even less control over those people who disagree with us.  But what we can control absolutely is how we approach people whose views differ from ours and, in particular, the tone of our conversations when we disagree.  And these conversations, I humbly believe, could begin to change the world.
--
Just a few examples of how life-changing a conversation can be:

1.This article by Shane Windmeyer, an LGBT acitivist, on his un-expected friendship and ongoing dialogue with Dan Cathy, the COO of Chick-fil-A.

2. This true story from the podcast "Snap Judgement" told by Daryl Davis, an African-American pianist who describes an even more un-expected friendship with a KKK leader.

So I challenge each of you (and myself too because I am also far from perfect) in these coming weeks, to embrace discord and disagreement and above all, to listen and understand.

Thoughts from the Porch of the Pantheon

I am sitting here in my own little corner of the Pantheon porch, which is a very small corner indeed when you consider how many other corners of similar size this universe contains.  And while I am sitting, I am confronting my own smallness.  It is not the kind of smallness that is measured in inches and meters, although even standing on the tip of my toes and reaching my hands as far as possible, I may as well reach for the stars as for this ancient roof, for I am small in that sense as well.   But even though this space is tall and wide and deep, its perimeter is not the sum of its greatness.  Rather, in addition to being very tall and very wide and very deep, it is long, long, long. This kind of length is measured in minutes and millennia and is enough to put me face-to-face with my own minuscule-ity.

            

Meanwhile, a little corner of humanity has begun huddling under the porch to take cover from an approaching rain storm.  Although it seems like a torrent of people from where I'm sitting, I must remind myself that this corner is a very small corner indeed when I consider how many other corners of similar size this Earth contains and has contained.  It makes me wonder about all the great men and women who have passed under this roof.  And, even more, I wonder about all the other men and women, who were perhaps not actually less great but only less memorable to the slippery annals of our histories.  For it is not only the so-called “greats” that have made us, but equally, or perhaps even more so, those folks in whom we would recognize ourselves if we were able to look through time the same way we look in mirrors.  These people were left out of writing the stories, but it was, nonetheless, their lives and loves and triumphs and forgotten struggles that bound the book.  Just as individual letters fill and give meaning to a page, their lives filled and gave meaning to the Earth.  Yet, just as we would be hard-pressed to identify the individual importance of any single, isolated letter, we would be hard-pressed to describe even one of their faces.  Even so, they have shaped our world and made, literally made us.

And in all of this conglomeration of humanity over space and time, where does that leave me and my little corner?  Where does it leave my companions who have, at least for now, managed to escape the rain?  I imagine we will all stick around for a while and leave with brighter skies.  After all, this rain will not last forever. These long columns, which have seen their fair share of rain storms, could surely tell us that.  Nor will we last forever, these columns could also tell us that.

Living in Poetry

A very dear friend of mine and I have been having a virtual discussion about poetry.  To be honest, I know very little about the subject, but have learned a lot, just through our ongoing dialogue and am looking forward, as always, to reading and learning more in the future.

There's something about a particular passage that she sent me to read that has really got me thinking, not just about poetry, but about how the broader scope of an idea:

"Here’s a tricky issue: the task is to grasp, to connect, to understand. But such a task is to some degree impossible, and most people want clarity. At the end of class, at the end of the day, we want revelation, a glimpse of the skyline through the lifting fog. Aesthetically, this is understandable. Some magic, some satisfaction, some "Ahhh!" is one of the rewards of any reading, and particularly the reading of poetry. But a poem that reveals itself completely in one or two readings will, over time, seem less of a poem than one that constantly reveals subtle recesses and previously unrecognized meanings...The most magical and wonderful poems are ever renewing themselves, which is to say they remain ever mysterious."
(Borrowed from "How to Read a Poem: Embrace Ambiguity")

Travel, to me, is always surrounded with an air of poetry.  Everything is new and never before seen, I see all the details of every street that I walk down, because I am constantly trying to better understand the place.  Eating a new food or meeting new people inspires the kind of instantaneous, ecstatic reaction that it's impossible to immediately capture in even the loveliest prose.  It's more like an impressionist painting or a poem-- a sensation that can not be fully understood in just one moment or one glance, just one reading. I find myself re-living these moments over and over again in my mind.

And it takes me to a passage from Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino, which I'll translate (quite roughly, as there is really no such thing as a clean translation) into English here:

"The more he loses himself in the unknown quarters of faraway cities, the more he understands the other cities that he crossed up until that point and he re-traces the steps of his travels and learns to know the port from which he set sail and the familiar places of his childhood and the surroundings of his home and a little place in Venice where he ran as a child."*

It is only by immersing ourselves into the unknown, that is, into the poetry of life, that we can begin to understand where we came from and how we ended up there.  The obvious and the straight-forward do not require that leap-of-faith, that uncertainty, that ambiguity where we find the room to grow.

It's easier to go through life with a closed heart and a closed mind,  If we are going to truly lean into our lives, truly "embrace the ambiguity," it takes a lot of courage.  After all, ambiguity, by its very nature, makes us uncomfortable.  It's much easier and more comfortable to live in an instruction manual than a poem.  The next step is always obvious and there is minimal risk involved.

But there is where is the joy?  Where is the growth?  Where is the beauty in a life like that? Life, like good poetry, should be a challenge.

That's why I'm most grateful for all the places I've never visited and all the people I've never met.

That's what fulfilling friendships and relationships are built on, discovering something new in a person that you knew through and through.

That's how a world I thought I understood manages to confound me anew every day in the most beautiful way.

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*I'm including those sentences from Le citta' invisibili by Calvino here in the original Italian, so that those of you who can read Italian will be confirmed in your suspicion that Italo Calvino was actually a significantly better writer than I am:

"Marco Polo immaginava di rispondere (o Kublai immaginava sua risposta) che piu' si perdeva in quartieri sconosciuti di citta' lontana, piu' capiva le altre citta' che aveva attraversato fin la', e ripercorreva le tappe dei suoi viaggi e imparava a conoscere il porto da cui era salpato, e i luoghi familiari della sua giovinezza, e i dintorni di casa, e un campiello di Venezia dove si correva da bambino"