“Did it ever occur to you that there’s no limit to how complicated things can get, on account of one thing always leading to another?” E.B. White in a letter to Stanley Hart White, 1929

Greetings Dear Ones!

Of all the many traumas some folks are experiencing right now, Graduation is the most wonderful. It is a time of fantastic panic—usually because parents did not realize they should have made their dinner reservations way back in Freshman year. This year, the panic, borne of amplified Uncertainty about the future, has knickers twisting like ropes. People who have spent the past four years answering questions are now faced with a whole series of Unanswerables. This can create Unimaginable Stress, fantastic out-of-the-box possibilities, or an insatiable thirst for beverages requiring I.D. Perhaps all three.

My daughter, who has been ten weeks in quarantine with me, is “graduating” from college this coming weekend. Due to the current pandemic, her (proud) father, (relieved) brother, and I will not be sitting in a stadium, along with thousands of other equally-pleased, camera-toting families, basting ourselves with sunscreen as our undergarments overheat, pondering those deep and meaningful questions that spring up like dandelions each May: “Which will last longer, this commencement speech or my pantyhose?” “Why did that woman three rows over feel the need to douse herself in aromatic Bath & Body products that are now inflaming my sinuses?” “We have to have her out of her apartment by WHEN?” (Our daughter, that is, not the woman three rows over who is no longer a concern of ours…) Sadly, there will be no hats, no gowns, no pomp, no circumstance. (Damn it all, I AM going to wear a Hat! Excuse me while I put one on right now!) Part of me is vastly relieved that I will not have to wear shoes that hurt my feet for three hours; part of me feels tragically bereft at losing the opportunity to cheer my lungs out for her when she crosses that platform to receive not one, but two Bachelor’s degrees—one in English, one in Biology. I would say she’s worked her bum off for four years but she still has some bum left (she is her mother’s daughter afterall—no amount of Shakespeare or knowledge of the Krebs Cycle makes it shrink). (Prudence thinks we should delete that line. “What kind of mother says such things?!!!”) Anyway, I am fiercely proud of her, beyond what words or bums or words about bums could possibly convey.

Sadly, it will be just a “normal” day now—perhaps with a hike up a nearby hill, a sparkling beverage or two, and a sensible dinner constructed out of parts found in the fridge. The Rest of Her Life, like all of ours too, will come silently with each and every new dawn, sans trumpets or impassioned pleas to donate the last dust from our coffers to the Alumni foundation…

So I am writing this little story in lieu of her getting the chance to be bored/inspired by a Professional Speaker who has written a book or annoyed enough people somewhere to be considered worthy of a hefty speaker’s fee to harangue a graduating class of hung-over people who just want to sleep off last night’s party in peace. I shall dress up and bore her myself, making sure to be as long-winded as possible, and making her wear a piece of cardboard on her head for the duration of my Talk. Depending on the weather, I may have her sit on a folding chair in the yard and gaze directly into the glare of the sun. I want this experience to be as Authentic as possible. This will be my speech to her—but you are welcome to listen in. I hadn’t got an idea for the blog this week anyway…

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Greetings honored sheep, distinguished dogs, and Darling Graduate. One behalf of the Administrative and Custodial staff of Hermit Hollow, I would like to thank you for coming, though I realize you had absolutely no choice in this—as I stand between you and the Food. We gather on this auspicious occasion to celebrate a commencement that will commence without ceremony and an ending that, well, will never end. You have learned how to Learn, which is a Great Good Thing. Bravo!! Now, I should like to ruin all that (and soak up all the time between now and lunch) by telling you a personal story that will show you how much you Don’t Yet Know. This tale will have great relevance for the over-ripe bananas in the audience, perhaps none what-so-ever for the firm and greenly anxious to be getting on with Things. Like all Good stories, this one is True, as far as I can tell. Some of it happened as recently as last week; some has been happening for many, many lifetimes already.

Once upon a time, nearly thirty years ago, four souls met and quickly recognized each other as dear old friends. They were, as you are now, on the cusp of finishing their university degrees and ready to tumble headlong off the cliff of Everything They Had Ever Known and into the abyss of All That Could Become. They hoped the wings they had been sprouting were strong enough to hold them aloft. They stroked their feathers and roisined their bows but they could not be Sure.

One day, two of these dear friends decided to paint their boots. They were older, scuffed boots whose polish was fading but the two friends didn’t have any polish. Besides, the boots looked ever so much cheerier with hearts and spirals and suns painted on them! Later, they happened to wear these boots on some errands into town. At a little place called Helios Fountain, where there were all sorts of inspiring books and objects of art for sale near a coffee shop, they were surprised to hear a mysterious voice say to them “Those look like Magic Boots—follow me to hear the story of those magic boots.” (Nowadays, we might be tempted to mace older men who say such things to young women, but thankfully such thoughts never entered their minds!) Entranced, they followed him. And that was how they met the Swirling Mass of energies, impulses, and wisdoms they came to call Magic Man. Of course, he had a real name and a real job—a very important one, it turned out—but they were so struck by his sense of magic and stories that he was always known as Magic Man to the four friends. When he wasn’t being Vastly Important in other arenas like international broadcasting and lecturing, he was obsessed with hunting, capturing, and preserving Stories. His whole life was a Story Safari. He introduced the four friends to the secret underground of storytellers who met beneath the city streets, in pubs, church basements, and university dwellings. The four went, clothed in raggle-taggle home-sewn clothing, painted boots, and daydreams, and sat, like children round a primal campfire, as myths and legends emerged, glistening and ethereal as soap bubbles breathed into fragile, momentary roundness by their tellers. These four, who were well-brought-up and somewhat anxious to relieve themselves of the burdens of middle-class Respectability, had never experienced anything so Dazzling or Daring. They met folks who had been born in Gypsy caravans, travelers from all over the world, and shaggy, barefoot Californians who had changed their names to Gandolf. They saw tears sparkle like diamonds on the leathered cheeks of grown men and heard the moss-soft echoes of faerie laughter at wasted treasures. Over and over, they returned to the time that was Once Upon-a. They began to see “stories” in everything they did.

Though they had spent years formally studying Anthropology, Accounting, Education, and Women’s History, they all came to see this central truth: No matter what, Everything is a story. Of course, being an English Major, you already know this. You know that every story has its Protagonist—this is the character or Being that is Pro the tagonist. If we are thinking like Romans, this means “for” the tagonist. If we think like ancient Greeks, then Pro means “first” (from proto), so this is merely the First Tagonist in a story. In either case, I’m not certain what a tagonist is, but, being a newly-minted graduate, I’m pretty sure you must, so I won’t bother looking it up. If you don’t know, for heaven’s sake, don’t admit that. We spent a lot of money on your education—I hope to hell you know at least one thing or two that I don’t, besides how to use Snapchat! You know also that there are Antagonists—these are the people and forces that oppose tagonists, though they are technically not the opposite of a Protagonist. These confusing terms and their usages are precisely why people need English degrees. Thank Heavens you have one now. (And you thought you got into this major just for the Money…) You, like those four raggle-taggle friends of Once Upon-a, are ready to wake up in the middle of your own tale and write the rest of it from here.

Stories often involve villains and heroes—some of which are the aforementioned Protagonists and Antagonists. Occasionally, there are victims. No matter what, don’t be the victim in your story. Stop that. Even if terrible things happen to you, and they might, Never be the victim. Victims have no power. Victims are often just secretly kinky people who get off on lying there, tied up on the railroad tracks, wiggling and bleating as the piano plays uptempo—waiting for a hero to save them or a mustached villain to blame. Horrific, Tragic things happen to heroes too—only they never cede their power. They change what happens to them into what happens for them. Try doing that instead.

Don’t Panic when you think you don’t know how your story goes. You’re living it Now. Remember, when two people are lost in a field, if they both run randomly, frantically looking for one another, the chances are great that they might keep missing each other, whereas if one stays still, the other may inevitably come across her, given enough time. So, when you are lost, STOP. Sit down; kneel down; lie down. Wait. You are the Highly Valued Precious Piece of a puzzle that is part of a bigger plan. What you need also needs you. Your Story is on its way to find you, even now. Don’t Run! Listen to those spark-joy impulses that tell you to draw your friend’s cat, Or learn a tune, Or call a friend, Or paint your boots. The things that lead you to Joy are your own Story calling softly, hoping you will hear.

As you make your way through Life, like the ancient Maori, you will sing into Being both yourself and the lands through which you travel. There will be some unexpected plot twists and character changes. Let the Unexpected teach you what you need to learn. It is no longer your duty to know the answers to other people’s questions. Now, and ever more, it is your duty to question their answers. (This is where your science degree will come in very handy!) Question EVERYTHING. Sniff out the Rot. Remember, sometimes the story is the one telling You, not the other way around!

When Other Voices try to take over, ask yourself, “Who is telling this story? Is it Fear, or Love?” Is it saying there is not enough? Then it is Fear. If it is saying, “My Darling, there is Plenty,” then it is Love.

We each, as Tellers, have two secret super powers—what Westley in The Princess Bride would call your assets against all liabilities. Even when the very life has been sucked out of you and only moments remain, you still have these: (Wheelbarrows occasionally come in handy too.)

#1, your incredible Uniqueness. You are, as E.B. White would say, “a party of one.”

#2, your ability to Connect With Others (through the medium of an open heart, not a clenched fist!) You are a co-creator—your audience is not just a group of Passive Observers. Reality is not Television. You are at a Cosmic Dance. These people are your partners.

No matter what happens, never lose faith in your story.

Someday, after you have been traveling for many years, you might be astonished to read a message that says something like “I was born in a town where you told stories. My mother bought cassette recordings of your stories for me. When I was five, my family moved home to Brazil. Since my new friends could not speak English, those tapes and those stories became my secret world. For years, I listened until I was afraid the tapes might break and I put them away. I am twenty-six now and I too am a Storyteller. I am in charge of a great museum program that is telling stories and making art for our community. I would not be an artist today if I had not had those tapes. Your voice is the voice of my secret world. I want to hear it again—do you have any more tapes?” And you will weep tears of Joy. You will think that despite the MESSES you have made in your life, and how your precious wings, once ready to Soar, are so scorched and burned and folded now to protect a heart so broken, how some days you don’t know why you even get out of bed, somehow… despite all the failures and disorganization and scatteredness and anxiety…some Good made it into the world because of You.

And that will be an incalculable blessing. You will look back and follow the homespun threads of your life and see that while you have done practically NONE of what you thought you would do, only SOME of what you wanted to do, somehow, you’ve done all you really needed to do.

You will follow one thread back to a pair of painted boots and realize that Nothing is pointless in this life. NO impulsive act of Beauty is not worth it. From the smallest of seeds come such wonderful fruits. Our “plans” are just starting points. Degrees don’t change the world; People do. Being Indecisive is the most exhausting energy drain I know, so rather than fight it, embrace the Mystery that swirls around you in these next months and years and seasons. You don’t know exactly what Good you are here to do, so do any tiny bit of good you can—it might not be what your are “trained” to do. More likely, your Greatest Good will come as a result of making your own heart Sing. Other hearts that may not be here yet will hear you one day and sing along.

Whenever you wonder what Life is about, watch “The Princess Bride,” “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and “My Dinner with Andre” again. It’s about the little, random acts of beauty or bravery we don’t even consider. It’s anything that teaches us we are here to Love and Be Loved.

I close my remarks now by inviting the Graduating Class of 2020 to rise and ever more, continue Rising!

No matter what, I love you so much.

Love,

Mum

P.S. While I’m up here, I’m going to award myself several honorary degrees for the following:

In Psychology for my work in Operating a 24hour Roommate Crisis hotline

In Geography and Navigation—for the HOURS I’ve spent lost in mazes beneath Boston picking you up and dropping you off, especially that year I drove under there from Thanksgiving straight through until Christmas and never once made it home.

In Culinary Arts—for teaching you how to boil an egg by phone.

Ok! Up with the Hats and Tassles!!! WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!