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Reasons To Be Cheerful: A Stray Comment

Recently I was contacted by a man who was my first boyfriend, who happened to find me on the internet, as a direct result of this column. We met each other on the debate team, so it is no great surprise that we have since tossed a few good natured, but argumentative e-mails back and forth across the country.

As a minor detail in our conversation, I asked if he knew where Dan Asmond was, and how he was doing. Dan and I were not close friends, but he played a crucial role in my life. Dan Asmond was the first person who told me I was a good writer. He was, in effect, my first reader.

Before that I had won contests and gotten good grades - but Dan was one of my peers. This was somehow tremendously authentic to me - and I remember the moment with superb clarity. Somehow it was made all the more sweet against the background knowledge that 17 year old boys are not normally big fans of essays and poetry. And Dan was no easy critic, he was a highly intelligent young man, on the honour rolls (and the debate team) and destined for many scholarships to college.

I find it amazing how the slightest comment can set the course of someone's life, as a moment of clarity of epiphany. We never know how much we touch each other's lives, for good or ill.

I have had editors and teachers who believe writing is a gift, and one has it to hone, or one does not. I am not a subscriber to that belief. As I believe that everyone has a voice, everyone has the potential to be a writer. So when I have been approached by budding writers, I have tried to give them as much value as I could in the time we had. I ran into someone at a funeral recently, and he said he had shown me a piece of his to critique. "How was I?" I asked. "Brutal." He said, smiling. Clearly he did not hold it against me. I apologised for my bad manners and tried to explain to him that I had only been trying to help - to give him as much information about the craft as I could in the short time I would have to talk to him.

Since then I have become more graceful about reading other people's work. At that same funeral, I reconnected with a long lost, and beloved friend and ex-student of mine, who is also a writer. During the gatherings of the week, he put his arm around me and said "She taught me everything I know about writing, and much of what I know about life."

Jason is a very self-effacing man. He was truly a good writer when I met him, and needed to develop some clarity, some structure and some polish. If we learned any of those things together, I am pleased. He lives in Portland and turns out the occasional screenplay.

Another intern I had , Joshua, is now making his living as a foreign correspondent, traveling through Asia, speaking Chinese, and respected everywhere he goes. He is a short, extremely muscular guy, with wild eyes, even wilder hair, and the image of a globe encircled by a flying feather quill pen tattooed to his shoulder.

A third intern I have had, also a Jason, became my partner in the design studio, and he and I have worked together for six years now. We create commercial work together, but it is our hope to write together - we have already started on our first manuscript.

With these men, I have some inkling of the effect my words have had on their lives. But what about all the other times - the moments of passing through - did I make a difference when I had a chance?

I once saw a man, six foot three at 16, entertaining a crowd in class. He had the face of a senator (a really good-looking senator) and the heart of a clown. He always made all of us laugh and he had a gaggle of admirers around him. At the tail end of his routine, he said, with a wicked grin, "When I grow up, I want to be an elf!" "But, you're too big to be an elf!" someone said. I swear I could see his whole life unfold at that moment. I knew him, and I knew he was making some important decisions about choosing a creative path or an engineering degree - something, challenging, but safe. His family was not well off, and was putting a great deal of pressure on him to do the thing that would bring him the most financial security. In his heart, he wanted to make people laugh, tell people stories, he wanted to make music. He also had a passion for flight. But his face became deadly still for a moment, and then he chose - the other path, the predictable path, the safe path.

"Alright," he said, picking up where he left off as though he had not broken a stride, "Then I'll be a cowboy." He was still smiling, but with that he returned to his studies in earnest, and did not look up from his books for the rest of the period. Something had been taken from him. Perhaps forever.

Early in my college career, I was fond of wearing colorful dresses with very full, draping skirts. One spring day, when the Northern Michigan University campus, famous for snow until June and winters of 40 below, the sun came out and it just happened to be deliciously warm. I kicked off my shoes and danced - ran to my classes. As I went I passed a couple of professors, one of whom was the head of the political science department - a woman I greatly admired. This woman was stately. She wore cream cashmere sweaters with camel hair coats and tasteful gold jewelry. She was brilliant in her field. She had traveled the world and advised dignitaries and heads of state. As I danced past her, mostly unconscious and moving too fast to stop, she turned her head to her colleague and said: "Now that is what we need to remember how to do, just like her. That is what we need to strive for."

That someone so important, so regal, should say such a thing about me, stunned me. Was it that important? I am now almost as old as that woman was then. I do not remember her name. I have carried some heavy burdens and seen some terrible things. Can you get to be this age and not have the knowledge that life is awash with pain and suffering?

But also, there is joy. Irrepressible, irresistible, moments that break through and remind us why we decide to remain here: A sweet smile from a little old lady with very bad breath; the near feral, flea ridden cat who will come and lie on your hip, purring - but only for a few moments - if you lay down and are very still for just the right amount of time; the bizarre concoction your husband makes trying to keep variety in your life around your strict new, doctor's orders diet; discovering a new flavour of tea; contact from friends you thought you had lost forever; contact from friends you've been neglecting for months; a song that brings back a moment you cherished; a moment that brings back a song that you cherished -

encouragement, when you thought no one would understand, realising that in fact, if there is any rhyme or reason to suffering, I would say that it is designed to bring us closer together; an unexpected gesture from a taciturn relative; watching a child solve a problem; seeing the world change colours again, and again, and again; snow; beards; watching people grow old and mature; coming to realize that yesterday's love is a pale shadow of today's love; keeping a commitment; a new britcom; a new British Mystery (how is it that a country that doesn't even have guns specializes in exporting murder stories?); a movie that you can't guess the end to; a book that is lush and leaves you wanting more; rereading that book; recognition for a job well done; anonymously doing the right thing; a beautiful piece of pottery -

making a difference, of any kind; singing, even if you can't do it well; a roommate who does the dishes; the gift of a plane ticket when you really needed to come home; the gift that symbolizes you have been adopted as part of the family; being called upon in need by the person who planned and executed your entire wedding; the friend who wants to buy property with you and live on it; the little girl who finally decides that you are cool enough to rate a hug -

public radio; international music; gypsy violins; the fact that someone invented museums that we can visit - and that not all great art is hidden away in private collections; cathedrals; temples; prayer; libraries; live theater when it's good; live theater when it's bad; the education program in prison that taught your uncle to paint; the Nobel Peace Prize -

fiords; canyons; mountains; valleys; rivers; oceans; the Saint Lawrence Seaway with all five great lakes and Niagara Falls; islands; inlets; trickle springs of fresh water; tad poles -

The smell of that white flower whose name I can remember but can't spell ( pronounced "Freeze-ya"); sunflowers; the miracle of many shades and qualities of light; yellow roses; house plants that don't die; pain relief medicine; medicine of any kind that works; remembering the shape of the eyelashes of every friend you have because you used to paint portraits; clear recall; sensation; hot; cold; warm; cool; chocolate -

This list is a lifetime long.

"Now that is what we need to remember how to do, just like her. That is what we need to strive for."

Was it that important? Well, I remembered that she said it, and every year since then, I have tried to hold on to my ability to step lightly through my life.

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