Maddenation
To Dan, On The Occasion Of His Graduation From The University Of Notre Dame Du Lac
I could say it in one word: con·gra·too·la·tee·ons! It seems only yesterday we were visiting campus for your or·eye·on·ta·tye·on. Now we are visiting the campus for the last time under the auspices of “visiting our son” in order to celebrate your com·mence·ment. My eyes start to glisten just thinking about it. Immediately I wonder how I will hold up under the machismonic strain of trying to remain stoic in the face of all the emotional sacraments we will be subjected to during this rite of passage. No one is more aware of the immensity of this weekend than Dan himself, who has shared with all of us his discomfort with the prospect of making his way in the world. But here I oversimplify and no doubt misstate Dan’s state of mind. Forgive me.
I knew him before he knew himself, but not before his mother knew him. I can only guess at the nature of his kicks and squirms while in the womb, being knit together by magical processes we only imperfectly understand, even with the awesome tools of modern biochemistry. His kicks must have been strong, however, based on the great leaping ability he demonstrated later. When I think of Dan, it is nearly im·pos·si·blay to dispel that constant imagine of him as a young tow-headed athlete in Lou·i·si·an·na. Or that picture of him watching me from the background as I swing from that vine on a Cub Scout hike to the falls at some wilderness area near Baton Rouge. (That’s how I want to be remembered, by the way. Testing the vine to make sure it’s safe for the others; relishing the opportunity to be the first to swing.) Dan was there, although he doesn’t remember it. He also doesn’t remember the copperhead that slithered between his legs along the trail, but I think the whole incident might have shaped a bit of his unconscious psyche anyway.
Dan used to infuriate me with his refusal to communicate. He’s just clam up, even holding his breath as a young child to make his silent stand; or to make his silence stand…for something. I couldn’t handle it and slapped him around a few times. I deeply regret that, as I do all the uncontrolled temper tantrums I displayed to my children. They covered that in Father School™ but I neglected to pay enough attention, and never turned in the homework assignments. Thank God for the resilience of children and the immense power of even a modicum of love.
Dan is a classic example of still water running deep. He writes poetry, this son of mine, and thinks about big questions that have no answers, and knows that the only satisfaction we derive is in the deliberations themselves. He likes clouds, and sings with a bell-clear voice like my mother. He once sat on the edge of the stage at a high school talent show with my old guitar on his lap and played and sang a song we had all heard before. Maybe you’ve heard it, he said as he sat down, and I can play back every motion he made and every note he sang, but I don’t remember the words, which is no surprise. I do, however, find myself reflecting on the words of that favorite Beatles song, Your Mother Should Know.
Let’s all get up and dance to a song that was a hit before your mother was born. Though she was born a long, long time ago, your mother should know; your mother should know.
Why do I cry when I write those words? Why do I put myself through it? Because it connects me with my own mother, who loved the lyrical melody of that Beatles hit. We were in the kitchen once when that song was playing, and I asked her if she liked it, hoping she would, hoping she would understand the transcendent talent of these mop-head rock-n-rollers as I did. “I love it,” she said simply, and I was glad.
So when I hear Dan sing, I hear my mother sing, and wonder at the wonder that brings this about. I wonder as I wander, seeking truth and resonance. I sense that Dan does this too, and sees clearly now that he is one of the fortunate sons who has the time and the setting and the abundance to wonder and the wherewithal to wander. He has choices and takes them seriously. This is a luxury that few have and even fewer take advantage of. He will choose wisely, but will not know this until later. Only God knows now.
Consider the lilies of the field, said Christ as he roamed the world. They do not toil or reap, but your heavenly Father cares for them and arrays them in a natural beauty that surpasses even Solomon in all his glory. No, they do not toil or reap, but are subject to trampling and death, as we all are. They are beautiful, and yet are not aware of their beauty, and cannot share in the joy they invoke. Christ knew this, and yet He said what He did. My yoke is easy, He also said, and my burden light; knowing that He would a short time later ask His Father to “remove this cup from me.” As a father, let me tell you, Dan, that I have not found this life to be easy, or its burdens light. They can only become light by the kind of self-denial that comes with total resignation to the will of God; the kind of resignation that may come only the saints, and I’m not so sure of that.
So my advice, dear son, is to be at peace. No doubt, in the words of the Desiderata, the world is unfolding as it should. Follow your heart, or your dream, or those nagging urgings that come from inside you. But don’t expect to get where you want to go on the first trip you take. And remember that all plans are made to facilitate change. And always remember that you are loved.
Dad • Memories • 05/15/03 • 0 comments
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