–Marian Wright Edelman (b. 1939; pioneering civil rights leader and founder of the Children’s Defense Fund, advocating tirelessly for children’s rights and social justice.)
Gobsmacked is what I am. Absolutely gobsmacked. You would be too if you were looking at the recipe that has captured my fancy. You might want to sit down before I share some details with you. Descended from Great Cakes, this cake is anything but a lightweight! Take a look at the ingredients—they’re enough to feed an army and keep their spirits high!
● 30 quarts of flour ● 10 pounds of butter ● 14 pounds of sugar ● 12 pounds of raisins ● 36 eggs ● 1 pint of wine ● 1 quart of brandy ● Spices beyond belief
OMG. With all of that booze, I’m ready to start singing “Happy Days Are Here Again.” I don’t know about you, but I sure could use a Triple Sec of cheer and joy to see me through today, tomorrow’s election, and the four years ahead.
But for today, “Don’t Worry. Be Happy.”At the same time, I’m not about to bake that cake! There’s just no way that I’m going to bake that cake. It would never fit into my ovens, not even both of them. I don’t feel too bad, though, because it wouldn’t have fit into a regular Colonial American oven either. Back then, it had to be baked in a communal oven.
“Communal oven!” someone just screamed.
Absolutely! A communal oven. It’s a reminder of how this country, in all its diversity, has always come together for one purpose—just as we’ll be doing tomorrow at the voting booth.
Someone else queried, “Is the Good Professor half baked?“
“He’s beyond half-baked,” someone else retorted. “He’s mixing this up. It’s more of his preposterous dough-hook nonsense.”
Excuse me! I am not half-baked, and I am not making this up. Those are the ingredients for an Election Day Cake recipe published by Amelia Simmons, “An American Orphan,” in her 47-page American Cookery (1796), America’s first cookbook. And get this. The Library of Congress has designated it as one of the “88 Books that Shaped America.” So there! Get off my bake!
Election Day in Colonial America was a holiday, and even though women couldn’t vote, their involvement in the voting process brought a unique flavor to the honor and privilege of voting. The Election Day Cake, hearty and full of energy, kept weary voters going—many of whom had traveled great distances just to make their voices heard. The bustling crowds and the special refreshments turned Election Day into a lively, festive event.
Fortunately, times have changed, allowing everyone, regardless of background, a place in our democracy to help bake a future for all Americans. Now women are welcome at the polls, and men are welcome in the kitchen. And that’s exactly where you would have found me yesterday, but I wasn’t baking that cake, only because it’s way too big. But since tomorrow is our opportunity to vote for a future that never mattered more in the history of our country than now, I made a scaled-back version of that Election Day Cake. I soaked the dried fruits in Cointreau for a week, and you can take it from me: the fruits and the Cointreau tasted exceptionally fine! To make this cake even more special, I pulled out my own sourdough, spawned right here on my mountain. After all, Colonial cooks would have used sourdough, too. (Remember, commercial yeast didn’t rise up until the 19th century.)
My bake is a celebration of our right to vote, gifted from past generations who fought to make it possible.
My bake binds me to community and civic pride, and its rich and layered flavors will remind me of how voting unites diverse voices into a single, shared event.
My bake speaks our collective voices, our collective choices, and our collective hopes for a future that embodies the best of America, for all Americans.
My bake is a melting pot of democracy, assuring me that every vote connects us to a shared history steeped in the sense of being part of something bigger. Each ingredient, like each vote, contributes to the rich, diverse flavor of our nation—just as every voice shapes a stronger, more inclusive democracy.
Tomorrow, when I vote, my bake will remind me that I’m fulfilling my civic duty.
Tomorrow, when I vote, my choice will be conscious and deliberate, cast for a future where our country grows stronger, becomes more unified, and remains true to the ideals we’ve fought to protect.
Tomorrow, when I vote, my ballot will be my celebration of democracy’s sweet fruits, honoring the values that make me proud to be an American.
Tomorrow, when I vote, I’ll be reminded that each of us has a critically important, once-in-a-lifetime, now-or-never obligation to fulfill as we come together united as one nation to “bake the vote” and to chart a new way forward.
We are all different expressions of one reality, different songs of one singer, different dances of one dancer.
–Swami Satchidananda (1914–2002; pioneering spiritual teacher who emphasized the unity of all religions and the interconnectedness of humanity, best known for founding Integral Yoga and promoting peace, love, and harmony globally.)
“Every cloud has a silver lining” is such a cliché that I’m appalled that I’m using it, no less at the beginning of my post. But I am. In a minute, you’ll understand why. For now, though, bear with me while I find out when the cliché was first used. Don’t run off! I’ll be right back after I consult my good friend, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED).
When I tell you what I found, you’ll be glad that you stayed. The expression started out as a truly original thought:
“Was I deceiv’d, or did a sable cloud Turne forth her silver lining on the night?”
That’s downright beautiful! Who gets the credit? John Milton. He used the phrase in Comus, his 1634 masque in which a virtuous Lady, lost in a magical forest, resists the temptations of the sorcerer Comus, the son of the wine god Bacchus and the sorceress Circe. With a combo like that, do I need to say more? Well, yes, I do, and I will. The “silver lining” in Lady’s dark cloud was the triumph of her chastity and inner strength over vice and deception. There. That says it all.
It took an understandably long, long time before Milton’s original thought veered off in the direction of becoming a cliché, thereby losing its impact. Let’s face it: most people would be challenged to remember Milton’s line, and if they did, they’d probably stumble over sable, perhaps not knowing that it means black or dark.
But don’t worry. Over time, the expression morphed into something more memorable and more understandable. More than two hundred years later, a variation appeared in Samuel Smiles’ Character (1871):
“While we see the cloud, let us not shut our eyes to the silver lining.”
Smiles was well-known for his self-help books, enshrining the basic Victorian values associated with the “gospel of work.”
Things started to speed up in the next decade, when an even more memorable version appeared in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, or the Town of Tutipu (1885):
“Don’t let’s be down-hearted! There’s a silver lining to every cloud.”
That comedic opera went on to become one of the most frequently performed works in the history of musical theatre. Little wonder that the line became overused and stale.
And there we have it: the birth of a cliché, with a small amount of its genealogical baggage tossed in for free. How’s that for good news?
Since the rest of this post is free, too, you’re getting a double dose of good news today. Who knows. With luck, maybe you’ll get even more. I hope so.
As for your humble bearer of all this free good news, apparently, I’ve been spreading it for a lifetime. My mother always boasted that I was born smiling, and I’ve kept right on smiling for nearly 77 years. I can’t help myself. Optimism is one of my core values. I guess you might say that I’m hardwired for seeing silver linings. There you have it: my personal good news and my rationale for opening this post with a cliché.
I wish that I could take full credit for seeing life as positively as I do. But I can’t. I have to acknowledge my mother. I have no doubt that while she was carrying me in her womb, she was conjuring up all the positive attributes that she wanted her sixth child to possess, and I’m sure that in addition to her conjurations, she was casting equally powerful spells on me and others by singing Gospels and by reading, praying, and preaching the Bible.
It took me a few years before I could sing the songs, pray the prayers, or read the Bible–the vessels carrying the Good News that was at the core of my Judeo-Christian upbringing.
But that was not a problem for me. Reading was not required for me to find my own good news, here, there, everywhere–outdoors.
I found as much delight in whispering to the buzzing honeybee cupped in my hand as I did chasing with wild abandon the heifer on the run through the coal camp, as confident that it would let me lead it home as I was certain that the honeybee would not sting the hand that proffered love.
I found as much joy lying in the grass blowing dandelion seeds into the sun as I did racing between the pitter patter of raindrops or as I did in dancing off to the end of the rainbow, coal bucket in hand so that I could bring back home all the gold nuggets awaiting my arrival.
I found as much miracle in green beans poking their fragile-coated selves through the hardness of blackened coal-camp earth as I did in the sticky white pinkness of the Mountain Laurel outside our kitchen door, stretching toward blue, over the top of the house.
And when someone reached up to the top of the Hoosier kitchen cabinet and turned off the horizontally ribbed, off-white Philco radio, I found myself believing that whatever song was playing would keep right on playing when someone else turned it back on, and if it didn’t, I believed beyond any shadow of a doubt that an even more beautiful melody would lift me up.
I found that the child in me awakened every morning, always delighted and excited to be part of a brand-new day, every second of every day. I had no idea what the day would bring, but I was eager for it to start ticking, knowing that I would find joy in its unfolding.
It should come as no surprise that everyone called me Little Mr. Sunshine. The good news that I found all around me stamped its imprimatur of a joyful smile upon my countenance.
It should come as even less of a surprise that when I learned to read and entered into a fuller understanding of the world around me, I was pulled as if by gravity itself to Robert Frost’s poetry and his profound connections between nature and humanity. In those early years of studying Frost, it did not matter that I did not see his darker side, personally or poetically. All that mattered was that his poetry spoke to my heart and made me believe–no, know–that I was part of the universal scheme of things. I’m thinking of poems like “Birches” and the speaker’s desire to escape the complexities of adult life and return to nature’s purity. Or “Mowing,” in which the speaker meditates on the act of mowing a field, focusing on the simple, rhythmic, and satisfying–almost sacred–connection between human labor and the natural world. And I can’t leave out his “Tree at My Window” and its compelling opening stanza:
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
I could relate. I never wanted the curtain drawn between me and the outer world, and, for that matter, I never felt that it could be drawn because I saw the outer world and my inner world as one and the same.
I could relate even more when I discovered Walt Whitman who saw mankind as an integral and interconnected part of nature, celebrating the unity between the human spirit and the natural world, where every individual is both a unique expression of life and a vital element in the eternal, cosmic cycle. I could blindly open Whitman’s Song of Myself, letting my hand fall on any page that I might open, hoping to find validation and the positive connection between man and the cosmos–my source for the good news–confident that I would find it. Right now, I’m thinking of Section 6, where Whitman uses the leaf of grass as a symbol of the individual and the continuity of life:
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
The leaf of grass becomes a metaphor for the cycle of life, the interconnectedness of all living things, and the mysteries of existence. Whitman reflects on how the grass can represent everything from the handkerchief of God to the graves of the dead, expressing his belief in the unity of nature and humanity.
The notion that all living things share an interconnectedness clutches my heart and shakes my soul in jubilant celebration. I am one with all. All is one with me. I’m not certain that the news gets any better. But it does. Let me explain.
When I started reading the Bible–one of the major books in the world declaring the Good News–I saw multiple ways of looking at it. Without a doubt, I understood that many Christians focus on the Good News as God’s plan to save humanity through Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection, offering forgiveness of sins and eternal life to those who believe. I also understood that others emphasize the coming of the Kingdom of God, where Jesus’ teachings bring transformation in how we live, treat others, and build just communities. Some understand the Gospel as a message of unconditional love, grace, and acceptance, where God’s love is freely given to all, regardless of merit. For some, the Good News is also a message of personal renewal and transformation, where individuals are invited to grow spiritually, morally, and in relationship with God. For others, the Gospel is about challenging social injustices and bringing peace, equality, and care for the marginalized, aligning with Jesus’ teachings on compassion and service.
It can, of course, be all those things. At the same time, a leaning toward one in no way excludes or minimizes the others. But for me personally, central to the spirit of the Good News is the belief that better times are coming. That doesn’t surprise me at all. This belief goes hand-in-hand with my conviction that every cloud has a silver lining. The idea that better times are ahead—whether today, tomorrow, or forever and a day—is a powerful way for me to stay hopeful and to embrace the positive transformations happening in my life. It’s uplifting for me to frame my life and life in general that way, because it keeps the focus on growth and renewal.
This is where the news starts getting better. The spirit of the Good News, as I see it—focused on personal transformation, hope, and the belief that better times are coming—resonates in other major world religions. While the specifics differ, many religions share themes of renewal, hope, and the potential for positive change.
Judeo-Christian beliefs are rich in Jewish thought and teachings with its strong emphasis on hope, justice, and the idea of tikkun olam (repairing the world). Jewish teachings often stress that despite the suffering or hardships experienced, there’s always hope for better times, often through collective effort and living according to the Torah’s ethical principles.
Emerging after Judaism and Christianity is Islam, with hope and transformation expressed through the belief in God’s mercy and guidance. Muslims believe that turning toward God, following the teachings of the Quran, and striving to live a just and righteous life bring both inner peace and divine rewards. The idea of continuous improvement (through repentance and good deeds) mirrors the personal transformation that I see in the Good News.
Another ancient world religion, Hinduism, also emphasizes personal growth through karma (the law of action) and dharma (righteous living). The belief in reincarnation offers a hopeful outlook that the soul evolves over lifetimes, learning and growing until it achieves moksha (liberation).
Closely related is Buddhism, in which the concept of transformation is central. The Four Noble Truths recognize the existence of suffering, but the Eightfold Path provides a way to overcome it, leading to enlightenment and freedom from suffering (nirvana). There’s a strong focus on personal growth and cultivating a positive mindset through mindfulness and right action.
In the same spirit, Taoism focuses on harmony with the Tao (the Way), advocating for living in balance with the natural order of the universe. The Taoist view of life’s constant flow and transformation aligns with a hopeful perspective, trusting in the natural unfolding of life and the possibility for renewal and peace.
Indigenous Spiritual Traditions agree with some truths to be found in these other paths of wisdom as I see them. Although indigenous belief systems are more localized, generally, they share a reverence for nature, for spirits, and for the interconnectedness of all life.
Search the foundational books and the oral traditions of all these world religions–the Bible, the Torah, the Quran, the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tripotaka, the Sutras, the Tao Te Ching, and the Zhuangzi--and you will discover that they are all deeply rooted in optimism, interconnectedness, and the power of personal growth. The wisdom of the world is that life is a web of connections–between nature, people, and the universe itself–moving outward in positive transformations.
I find comfort in knowing that the fire in me is in all, burning away the old in me, clearing space for new beginnings and transformation.
I find comfort in knowing that the rain that washes me washes all, rejuvenating, cleansing, nourishing, and purifying.
I find comfort in knowing that the wind that sweeps my face sweeps all, and elusive and unpredictable thought it might be, it blows in change, freedom, inspiration, and transformation.
I find comfort in knowing that the earth that anchors me anchors all, giving stability, permanence, and a connection to nature.
I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that live in me area are alive in everyone.
I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that surround in me are alive in all living things.
This is the Good News: in every faith, in every life, in every cloud, and in every clearing, there’s a silver lining. And that silver lining is universal. It’s hope. It’s renewal. It’s transformation. It’s better times ahead—for all of us. Together, one.
“You can’t break something that’s already broken, but you can always build something new.“
–Yoko Ono (b. 1933; best known for her avant-garde art and her influence in the peace movement alongside John Lennon.)
The pieces are on top of a bookcase, and they’ve been there for a month or so. Every time I walk past, I see them, five torn pieces of paper boasting blue, picked up from the floor after my dog finished her clandestine mischief.
Once upon a time, I would have just thrown the paper scraps away. This time, I didn’t. This time, I’ll take my time to put the pieces back together.
Here’s why. What Ruby tore apart and left behind for me to find was an important family recipe. Imagine an exquisitely moist applesauce cake replete with raisins, pecans, and candied cherries, baked in a pressure cooker. My mother made the cake every year a few weeks before Christmas, and it was one of my favorites. I haven’t had one of those cakes in decades, maybe longer.
Lately, I’ve had a hankering for that cake, and I’ve searched all over the Internet for the recipe, not remembering that I had it already. My mother had given me the recipe. One day, while looking for something else, I found the full-page recipe with ingredients and instructions, all in her gentle cursive.
I’ll do my best to piece that page together again, hopefully with enough precision that I can read the full recipe. The page, of course, won’t be the same. It never can be. Ironically, it will take on even more meaning because I cared enough to mend it and put it back together. Even though it will always show its brokenness, it will still be my mother’s recipe in her handwriting on her paper. I’ll bake the cake when Christmas nears, and I fully believe that it will be the best one ever because it will have an extra scoop of love.
This is not the first time that I’ve mended the broken.
I’m thinking of a sculpture in my living room. Its earthy tones reflect seamlessly into the highly polished cherry coffee table. The sedimentary rock reveals the raw beauty of erosion and time, with jagged edges and smooth, wave-like ridges suggesting years of elemental force, reminders of the rock’s enduring strength. The fissures, winding through the top, were not there when my late partner gave me the sculpture. But a month or so before Allen’s death, he stumbled against it, and there it lay on the coffee table, shattered brokenness. It stayed there, a daily reminder of fragility and brokenness. Time passed, and I mustered up the courage to artfully glue it back together, its fissures now seemingly an integral part of the rock, adding an almost mystical feel. It’s still on my living room coffee table. It’s still very much alive and reminds me of Allen’s presence.
I had another encounter with the beauty of brokenness years earlier. I had built a graceful, curved walkway on the east side of my home, near the Koi Pond. I wanted to maintain a natural rustic look, so I made the walkway out of large, rectangular natural stone pavers, stabilized by the very earth itself. I leveled the ground as I put the pavers in place, making sure they didn’t move when stepped on. When I finished the 60-foot stretch of walkway, I decided to test its stability by jumping on each paver. When I landed on the second paver from the end, I heard a crack. I looked down and could see a fissure running through the center. I looked beneath the two pieces and discovered a rock, small enough to escape my searching eyes when leveling the paver but large enough to cause brokenness. My immediate reaction was to replace the paver. But I had second thoughts. It still functioned as an integral part of the walkway, and if I widened the fissure just a little and filled it with soil, it might even add a sense of age and character, especially when small patches of grass and weeds started to grow through the crack, proclaiming nature’s power to take back what we think is ours.
My decision to repair what was broken in these three instances was influenced directly by Kintsugi, the centuries-old Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the breaks with a lacquer that’s mixed with silver, gold, or even platinum. The intent, obviously, is not to disguise the brokenness but rather to celebrate its repair and survival, believing that the broken can be mended, made stronger, and remain useful and purposeful.
It seems to me that we can all benefit from an important lesson, whether it be found in broken Japanese art, a broken paver, a broken sculpture, or a broken recipe. The essence of being is being broken. The strength of being is the power of repairing the broken. The virtue of being is valuing and celebrating brokenness.
Let’s face it. As human beings, we are all flawed and broken. It seems to me that if we can repair our broken objects and continue to see their value and their beauty, so too can we repair the broken parts of our own lives.
In our personal lives, we’re destined to encounter moments of fracture—relationships that crack, trust that falters. It’s easy to walk away and to discard the pieces. But when something matters—when love, friendship, or family is at stake—mending becomes an act of grace. It is in the careful work of rebuilding that we find deeper connections and more profound love.
Similarly, in our professional lives, we are not immune to failure. Our careers break under the weight of expectations, and our ambitions sometimes shatter. But brokenness does not mark the end of a career; it marks a turning point. The effort to repair, to rebuild, to piece together what once was, shapes not just our work but our purpose.
And in our spiritual lives—our most intimate, vulnerable selves—there are moments of doubt, of disconnection, of feeling broken. Yet, like ancient pottery, our spiritual cracks are not meant to be hidden. They are to be filled with light, with the gold of wisdom, faith, and renewal. It is through our brokenness that we find our way back to our wholeness.
What is broken can be mended. What is flawed can be made beautiful again. The cracks, the breaks—they are part of the story. And for the things that matter most—our relationships, our work, our spirit—they are worth every moment of care, every act of patience, every effort to repair and restore so that we can celebrate beauty in brokenness.
“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”
—Margaret Mead (1901–1978; renowned American cultural anthropologist; strong advocate for social change and human rights, influencing discussions on gender, family, and education.)
Blue-tipped flames, shooting up from the oak logs burning in my kitchen fireplace, are chasing away a mid-September, early-morning chill. I’m sitting at the table, facing the flames, enjoying the warmth. I’m fresh shaven and freshly showered. I’m wearing my best casual shirt and my favorite Chinos–both from acclaimed clothier Charles Tyrwhitt of London–along with my Allen Edmonds loafers. I’ve even fragranced myself with a delicate spray of Sage & Citrus Oud, my favorite cologne by Habibi of New York.
Where am I going? No where. I’m hunkered down right here, sipping a decadent whip-creamed-topped hot chocolate in my favorite stoneware mug with a simple wooden handle that bespeaks rustic elegance.
But even though I’m staying right here, I’m working on a critically important task, and when something’s critical, I believe in getting myself in the right frame of mind.
Let me tell you about what I’m doing. I’m a volunteer, sending out postcards to voters in Swing States. I’m writing my message, a simple, straightforward reminder to vote on Tuesday, November 5. I’m taking my time. I’m making sure that every word is clear and legible, signaling the heavy duty that all eligible voters have to vote. I’m writing in a slower and more deliberate manner, mirroring our slow and deliberate choices when we vote.
I’m writing cards to people living in little towns I’ve never heard of. They’ll be getting cards from someone living in a little town they’ve never heard of. That doesn’t matter. What matters is getting people to vote on Tuesday, November 5.
As I address my 300 postcards—each one a small but powerful step toward change–I can’t help but reflect on the significance of volunteer work in the United States and how we have a long tradition of citizen-led efforts that have changed our nation for the better.
I’m thinking, for example, about the American Revolution. Who doesn’t remember Paul Revere’s midnight ride to warn the people of Concord that the British were coming? He was an ordinary citizen, just like the other 230,000 Minutemen who volunteered to fight for independence. Without the commitment of these volunteer soldiers, the struggle for freedom might have turned out very differently.
Fast forward to the Abolitionist Movement. I’m thinking of Harriet Tubman who was born into slavery, escaped to freedom in the North, and then risked her own life to lead other enslaved people to freedom through the Underground Railroad, a volunteer movement operating secretly across 14 northern states and parts of Canada. By some accounts, more than 100,000 enslaved people escape to freedom through the help of the Underground Railroad.
Without this vast network of volunteers, the escape routes and freedom efforts would have been far less successful, and many would have remained enslaved.
Or what about the Women’s Rights Movement? Volunteers like Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton come to mind. They and thousands of other activists worked tirelessly for decades to secure the right to vote for women. But one volunteer in particular looms large in my mind because she loomed large in life: Sojourner Truth, one of the most powerful advocates for women’s rights in the nineteenth century. At the 1851 Women’s Rights Convention held in Akron, Ohio, she delivered what is now recognized as one of the most famous abolitionist and women’s rights speeches in American history, “Ain’t I a Woman?” If you haven’t read it, this would be the perfect time, so that you’ll appreciate more fully subsequent volunteers whose steadfast work and determination led to the eventual passage of the 19th Amendment in 1920, giving over 26 million women the right to vote.
Sadly, that victory was only a partial win for women. Three years later, Alice Paul introduced the first version of the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA), aimed at ensuring that “men and women shall have equal rights throughout the United States and every place subject to its jurisdiction.” I have not the ability to explain the complicated chronology of the ERA Campaign since then, nor can I comprehend why the amendment has not been ratified. Most recently–on January 27, 2020–Virginia made history to become the 38th state to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment, thereby reaching the required number of states for ratification. Now, the attention is focused on the fight for Congress to remove its 1982 deadline. I am convinced that eventually, the amendment will ratify its way to the Constitution, and when it does, it will be largely because of grassroots volunteers from 1923 until now.
Without those volunteers, the fight for women’s voting rights and gender equality would not have achieved the critical progress it has, and the ongoing efforts to secure full legal equality might not exist at all.
Then we have Voter Registration Drives and the Civil Rights Movement. How well I remember both. I lived through them. I’m thinking especially of The Freedom Summer of 1964. It’s a perfect example of grassroots volunteerism. Over 1,000 volunteers, many of them college students, traveled to Mississippi and other Southern states to register African American voters. Despite the dangers, including arrests, beatings, and even the murders of three civil rights workers, these volunteers worked door to door, held freedom schools, and organized workshops to encourage African Americans to exercise their right to vote. And let’s not forget this fact: Black women domestic workers led community efforts to organize and advance voter registration drives as well as the Civil Rights Movement. Equally important, let’s not forget the grave danger that more than 60,000 African Americans in Mississippi risked by attending local meetings and choosing candidates. 17,000 African Americans attempted to register, though only 1,200 were allowed to do so because of the restrictive laws. However, these efforts were pivotal in raising awareness and helping to pass the Voting Rights Act of 1965, which banned discriminatory voting practices.
Even today, grassroots voter registration drives continue. I’m thinking about those led by Stacey Abrams’ Fair Fight Action aimed at empowering marginalized communities. Through her efforts, over 800,000 new voters were registered in Georgia between 2018 and 2020.
Without those volunteers, both today and in the 1960s, critical voting rights victories and the enfranchisement of marginalized communities might never have been achieved.
I’m also mindful of several other initiatives dear to me where volunteers have made a powerful difference.
How well I remember the start of the Earth Movement with the first Earth Day, on April 22, 1970. It was a massive grassroots effort with over 20 million Americans—about 10% of the U.S. population at the time—participating in events like cleanups, rallies, and educational forums, making it one of the largest civic demonstrations in our history. Organizers reached out to schools, universities, and local communities to mobilize people, and the idea spread rapidly through word of mouth, local environmental clubs, and volunteer-driven networks. How vividly I remember that Seventeen magazine took out an ad in the New YorkTimes. I just looked it up so that I could provide the poignant text that appeared beneath a photo of a couple strolling, hand in hand, along a beach:
“Today—Earth Day—we salute millions of earnest young people who have accepted the challenge of seeking solutions for our environmental ills. Having reached the moon in the Sixties, perhaps in the Seventies we shall rediscover the earth!”
Volunteer participation helped generate the momentum that led to the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) later that year and the passage of key environmental laws, including the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act. Today, who is not familiar with Greta Thunberg, who at 19 years of age became a Swedish environmental activist and rose to fame worldwide. She has become one of the world’s most famous figures and has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.
Without Greta and the long line of volunteers just like her, the modern environmental movement, and critical regulatory bodies like the EPA, might never have gained the traction needed to protect our natural resources.
As a gay man, I am mindful of the role that volunteers have played going all the way back to Henry Gerber, who founded The Society for Human Rights in 1924—the first gay rights organization in the United States. That was long before I was born, but I well remember the Stonewall Uprising in the summer of 1969, when New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay club in Greenwich Village. Those riots served as a catalyst for the gay rights movement in the United States and around the world.
And look how far we’ve come. Thanks to tireless volunteers, in 2015, marriage equality became the law of the land. More recently, in 2020, Pete Buttigieg made history as the first openly gay candidate to make a serious run for president and later serve in a key role during the Democratic campaign. His rise is a testament to the hard work of volunteers who have pushed for visibility and inclusion at the highest levels of politics.
Without those volunteers, none of this progress would have been possible.
Or what about the AIDS Crisis? In the 1980s and 1990s, ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) and GMHC (Gay Men’s Health Crisis) were grassroots organizations at their core. Thousands of ordinary citizens, many directly affected by the AIDS crisis, volunteered for roles in advocacy, caregiving, and public awareness. By 1986, ACT UP had grown to over 10,000 volunteers and by 1991 GMHC provided services to over 15,000 people living with AIDS by 1991, thanks to volunteers who offered emotional and practical support. One person, though, haunts my memory: David Kirby, a Gay Rights Activist who died prematurely from HIV/AIDS. As he drew his last breath, surrounded by his family, Therese Frare took a picture that was published in November 1990, LIFEMagazine. It was titled “the picture that changed the face of AIDS.” After its public display, the photograph became one of the most powerful photos identified with the HIV/AIDS pandemic.
Without those volunteers, the public response and the government’s response to the AIDS crisis would have been delayed, and countless lives might not have been saved by the advancements that followed.
Most recently, we’ve all grappled with the COVID-19 pandemic. Once again, volunteers played an essential role in responding to its challenges. From helping with vaccine distribution to supporting food banks and providing community care, volunteers were at the forefront of the response. In the U.S., over 80,000 volunteers with the Medical Reserve Corps (MRC) assisted at vaccination sites, helping to administer vaccines, manage logistics, and ensure smooth operations. At the same time, grassroots efforts like Mutual Aid Networks connected volunteers with elderly and vulnerable populations, delivering essentials like groceries and medications to those unable to leave their homes. Food banks, facing a 60% increase in demand, relied heavily on volunteers to distribute meals to millions of families affected by the economic fallout. Retired healthcare professionals and medical students also volunteered in hospitals and clinics, providing critical support to overwhelmed healthcare systems. Volunteers even staffed crisis hotlines, offering mental health support to individuals struggling with isolation and loss. But one small group of five volunteers stand out to me because they embody the true spirit of volunteerism. They were healthcare workers at New York-Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital who made headlines for their bravery and dedication. They volunteered to clean the rooms of COVID-19 patients, a task that involved significant risk. Their willingness to step up and ensure the safety and cleanliness of the hospital environment was crucial in preventing the spread of the virus and in setting a model for others to follow.
Without thousands upon thousands of volunteers, the pandemic response would have been far less effective, and countless communities would have lacked the support they needed during one of the most challenging times in modern history.
I could continue my reveries and showcase more volunteers and their extraordinary power even more fully. If I were to do so, the same adjectives could be used to describe them.
With such noble traits, it’s easy to see why so many are eager to contribute to meaningful causes. I’m fortunate to be involved in one right now, and that brings me back to where I began. I’m sending out postcards to voters in Swing States, an effort that feels critically important.
I’m just one volunteer, and I’m only writing 300 postcards. But get this. I’m working with more than 265,000 other volunteers, all part of the Progressive Turnout ProjectInitiative. Together, we’ll be sending out more than 40 million postcards. Vote by vote, we will make a difference.
And what about you? What can you do?Ifyou’reanAmerican voter, I urge you to exercise your right to voteon November 5. Together, we can change history once again.
Remember, too, that volunteerism is a powerful tool for change regardless of who you are and regardless of where you live. Look around your own corner of the world for a cause that you can champion. As you do, you will join hands with more than 1 billion volunteers worldwide. As you do, celebrate the realization that as a volunteer, you have the power to change history, one act at a time.
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.”
—WilliamShakespeare (1564–1616; an English playwright, poet, and actor, widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. The quote is Prospero reflecting on the fleeting nature of life, The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1.)
Raindrops had been falling steadily all day, but I was determined to get a better glimpse. I pulled safely off the road and parked in a grassy area, hoping to turn my drive-by impressions into something more tangible.
Right across from me stood the nearly remodeled house at the corner of Gateway Lane. Its fresh gray siding gleamed against the misty afternoon, and the neat white trim on the roofline and windows gave it a crisp, modern edge. This clean contrast seemed to soften against the backdrop of the old, towering trees surrounding it. A small front porch, still under construction, wrapped around to the side, its bare framework waiting to cradle the entryway that would soon welcome visitors. The simplicity of the single-story structure was anchored by the earthy lawn and the gentle curve of the road, reflecting a quiet transformation. Even the steady rain couldn’t dampen the renewal unfolding before me.
But this remodeling was more than just a surface change. It had been going on for over a year, maybe longer. The house wasn’t just getting a facelift; it was being rebuilt from its very foundation. This wasn’t simply a matter of adding a porch or changing the siding from white to gray. The work was deep and structural, and that’s what had taken so long.
I remember when it all started. The house was suddenly surrounded by the relentless growl of a backhoe, its sharp metal teeth tearing into the earth around the foundation. Day by day, the trench grew deeper and wider, as if the house itself were being uprooted, its very stability pulled into question. Dirt piled high, and the house seemed to brace itself for the transformation ahead.
Then came the cinderblocks, stacked in neat, heavy rows, patiently waiting to reshape and fortify the foundation. The windows—the house’s eyes to the outside world—were ripped out, leaving dark, hollow spaces. They were hastily covered in sheets of plastic, which flapped and snapped against the wind on gusty days, as if the house were drawing deep, ragged breaths during its lengthy transformation.
Through it all, the house endured quietly, as if preparing for a rebirth beneath the dust and debris. The process dragged on, perhaps because the crew was never more than one or two people at a time. Sometimes, I wondered: Why not tear it down and build anew? Other times, I thought: Were the owners tied to the house by more than just bricks and mortar? Were they new buyers, envisioning profit from this modest fixer-upper?
Now, on this misty afternoon, as I admired the nearly completed house from my Jeep, I knew that soon—perhaps by Thanksgiving or maybe before the joy-filled month of December—someone would move into their new home. Someone had a dream, and now it was realized, born not just from superficial changes, but from all that’s required to make dreams come true.
As I became transfixed by the modest transformation in front of me, my mind’s eye gradually faded into a sharp focus of me, myself, chasing my own lifetime of dreams.
My dreams have been few in number but big in size. They’ve been big because I see dreams as different from the gazillion goals that I’ve set for myself down through the years, the things that I knew I could achieve in a day, a week, a month, a year, or even longer.
For me, dreams go far beyond goals. They overarch all else. They serve as a life-compass. They keep me oriented and aligned with my true North, my own authentic self.
From as early as five years old, I started dreaming on clouds, and my first cloud dream was bigger than my home, bigger than my coal camp, bigger than West Virginia, bigger than anything that I knew or could comprehend. I knew then something about myself that would shape my entire life: I was drawn to men, though I didn’t fully understand the depth of that attraction. Growing up in the late 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s in the Bible Belt South, with a fundamentalist minister for a mother, I quickly recognized that this truth about myself would be a challenge to navigate. In a world where the church preached that men like me were sinful, and where societal norms pressed in from every side, my dream was simple: to move forward, to stay true to who I was as a person, and one day, to live an openly gay life, free from ridicule and condemnation.
Back then, the idea of living openly wasn’t even something I could articulate fully. Yet the desire to live authentically, without having to hide a core part of who I was, remained my compass. I was too young to understand the full scope of what it meant to be gay, but I already knew that the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. All around me was the conflict of sin and salvation. Even as a child, I had a hope, a dream, that someday, the world, however big it might be, might allow me to live openly as myself, without fear.
That was my first big dream. One day, it came true. One day, though it was decades in coming, I was able to live openly as a gay man. One day, when I met my late partner, I discovered the power that two people experience when they surrender fully to true love. One day, Allen and I said our vows, exchanged our rings, and went on living our lives together, openly, as all people should be allowed to do. Through it all, my dream empowered me to maintain my authenticity.
My second cloud dream wasn’t as big as the first, but it was bigger than my home and bigger than my family. Influenced by my mother, the minister, I fell in love with language as a preschooler. Her sermons were magical, and I came to believe that her words held great power. Her Biblical research also fascinated me, as I watched her thumb through multiple Biblical commentaries, especially her treasured Matthew Henry Commentary onthe Whole Bible, originally written in 1706. Her quiet, unseen research brought informed clarity to her interpretations, helping her with her sermons and helping her help others navigate their own spiritual journeys through the Bible. Without knowing it, her unpretentious research revealed to me the joy of discovery and exploring comparative meanings in a text. By the time I reached third grade, I had a dream not only that I would become an English professor but also that I would earn my Ph.D., become a published scholar, and make learning my lifelong companion.
Today, that’s not an unusual dream, but for me, the son of a coal miner and the first in his family to go to college, it was extraordinary. Even so, extraordinary dreams come true. One day, I earned my Ph.D. One day, I became a college professor. One day, I became a published author, not only of scholarly works but also of creative nonfiction essays. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to fulfill all of those things and, in addition, have a distinguished career at the Library of Congress? But it did. For a kid who grew up in a home with just a handful of books and in a town with no library, it was beyond imaginable that I would spend a quarter of a century working in an institution with “all the books” and giving human resources advice to two Librarians of Congress. Who would have dreamt that nearing eighty, my dream would still be propelling me toward learning? But it does. I’m as turned on now by learning as I was turned on by words when I was a child, but these days I’m hyped by Artificial Intelligence (AI) and my belief that we can harness its power to make us better than we are. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to taste “the good life” without ever making it a priority? But it did. The material comforts, joyful and meaningful career engagements, loving relationships, physical and spiritual well-being, and belonging to rich and diverse communities fell into place.
My third dream was bigger and billowier than the first two. Although I never made a conscious effort to live “the good life,” I did resolve from childhood that I would live “a good life.” I’ve always taken the moral high ground, based on justice and goodness rather than personal gain or self-interest. I’ve always stood up for the underdog, knowing that I’m standing up for everyone because somewhere along our journeys, we’re all underdogs. I’ve always shared my plenty with those whose want brings pain and suffering not only to them but also to me. I’ve always accepted people for who they are and where they are, believing that their blood pulses through my veins and mine through theirs. I’ve always been grateful for what I have, celebrating that my meager mite, regardless of its manifestation, is my lot. I’ve always tried to make amends by the end of the day for words harsh-spoken and feelings ill-harbored, knowing the wisdom of my mother’s teaching:
“Never let the sun go down on your wrath.”
I’ve always seen every day as a brand-new day, giving me one more chance to “get it right,” whatever the “it” might be. I’ve always tried to live every day so that at the end of each day, even if it should be the end of my life, I am at peace with myself and with my soul, being able to slip into slumber, sighing the words of that great gospel song:
“It is well with my soul.”
As I reflect on the three dreams that shaped my life, I know now what I never knew as a youngster starting out on my journey. It’s clear to me that without even knowing what I was doing, my dreams aligned with key stages of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, illustrating how my pursuit of a fulfilled and meaningful life followed a path of human development that is universal. We all pursue our physiological needs of food and water. We all pursue our need for safety of person, employment, family, and resources. We all pursue our need for love, belonging, and sexual intimacy. We all pursue our need for self-esteem gained through achievements as well as through respecting others and being respected by others. We all pursue the most important pursuit of all, our need for self-actualization, of discovering, developing, and celebrating our own authentic self.
And you? What about you and the life dreams that you are chasing? Whatever they might be and wherever you might be in seeing them through to fulfillment, let me offer a few words of encouragement based on where I’ve been and what I’ve experienced on my journey.
● Above all else, dream. Dream big, bigger than the bounds of your imagination, and perhaps even bigger than what you think possible. The greater the strive, the more likely the achievement.
● Wake up every day to your dream, letting its brightness surround you and lead you throughout your day. The more beaming the vision, the closer the reality.
● Work tirelessly and endlessly toward achieving your dream. The greater your grit, the more triumphant your victory.
● Expect setbacks, reminding yourself that life often leads us two steps forward only to thrust us one step back. Turn every setback into a comeback.
● Keep an eye open for naysayers, realizing that you yourself may be the chiefest among them. Transform traitors of dooming doubt into warriors of powerful prayer.
● Surround yourself with supporters, those who believe in you and your dream. The stronger your circle, the more robust your resolve.
● Validate yourself, but never forget to validate others, knowing that each of us is enough. The more you uplift others, the more we rise together.
In the end, what matters most is not the size of our dreams, but the dreams themselves and the heart and grit that we pour into them. In the end, we need to be ever mindful that we are all such stuff as dreams are made on, constantly rebuilding our foundations, striving toward fulfillment, and learning that the journey itself is the real victory. Dreams are not just distant destinations; they are the roadmaps guiding us toward our authentic selves. Whether we stumble or soar, each step along the way is a testament to our perseverance and our determination to not let go of what we hold most dear.
Whatever dream you are chasing, know that it is not the finish line that defines you—it is the striving, the growing, and the becoming that shape who you are. Keep dreaming. Keep reaching. Keep believing that every effort, every setback, and every triumph will bring you one step closer to your truest and most authentic self.
“I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence, and the truth comes to me.”
— Attributed to Albert Einstein (1879–1955; physicist whose theory of relativity revolutionized modern science, making him one of the most influential figures in physics.)
“Professor Kendrick, where do writers find their ideas?”
Without a doubt, that’s the question that students in my literature and creative writing classes ask most often. I suppose they think that if I can provide them with answers, they can somehow chart the mysterious path to their own ideas.
I’m always glad to answer the question. Why wouldn’t I? Aside from being an educator, I’m also a writer. I love talking about writers and writing. However, whenever I tackle this question, I do so playfully. I like to tease my students into thinking on their own, so I start out with whimsical suggestions:
● Ideas fall out of the sky.
● Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.
● Ideas pop up while you’re brushing your teeth, hiding among the bristles.
● Ideas sneak in on the back of a grocery list when you’re not paying attention.
● Ideas are delivered by the most unreliable carrier: a stray dog that follows a writer home one day, and voila! A bestseller.
● Ideas arrive like magic—or madness—depending on the deadline.
Of course, there is some truth in my exaggerations. To prove my point, I share with my students what writers themselves have to say. Ironically, writers rarely discuss the origins of their ideas in detail. They prefer leaving them behind a shroud of mystery. Or they discuss their sources in ways that reflect the unpredictability of inspiration.
Fortunately, I know a good number of writers who have been outspoken about how they get their ideas, and I talk about those writers with my students. More often than not, I’ll start with Mark Twain, who wrote about what he knew best: the world around him. Students seem to like that possibility–of working with what they know–and most of them have read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain didn’t hesitate to let the world know that he based good ole Huck on a real-life person:
In Huckleberry Finn I have drawn Tom Blankenship exactly as he was. He was ignorant, unwashed, insufficiently fed; but he had as good a heart as ever any boy had. His liberties were totally unrestricted. He was the only really independent person–boy or man–in the community, and by consequence he was tranquilly and continuously happy and envied by the rest of us. And as his society was forbidden us by our parents the prohibition trebled and quadrupled its value, and therefore we sought and got more of his society than any other boy’s. (Twain, Autobiography, 1906)
Twain’s contemporary Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–who shared with him the distinction of being two of America’s most beloved writers at the start of the 20th century–used real life as the springboard for lots of her fiction, too. She focused on what she knew best, and she fictionalized it. She once wrote to Sarah Orne Jewett:
“I suppose it seems to you as it does to me that everything you have heard, seen, or done, since you opened your eyes on the world, is coming back to you sooner or later, to go into stories, and things.” (December 10, 1889, Letter 50, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)
Apparently, lots and lots came back to her, enough that she has more than 40 books to her credit.
As an example of her ability to take the mundane and elevate it to the universal, when I teach Freeman, I generally focus on one of her best short stories, “A New England Nun,” and I share what she wrote to her editor Mary Louise Booth:
“Monday afternoon, I went a-hunting material too: We went to an old lady’s birthday-party. But all I saw worth writing about there was a poor old dog, who had been chained thirteen years, because he bit a man once in his puppy-hood.” (April 28, 1886, Letter 13, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)
Freeman gave “the poor old dog” new life, a name, and heightened symbolism in “A New England Nun,” one of the most poignant explorations of sexual repression in nineteenth century American literature. Students–and readers in general–are fascinated to see how Freeman elevated a commonplace observation to a symbol upon which one of her most famous short stories depends.
More recent writers suggest similar sources for their ideas. Ray Bradbury, for example, once said:
“I don’t need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.”
His ideas included overheard conversations, dreams, and life’s other magical moments.
Or what about Toni Morrison? She maintained that her ideas were rooted in memories and the people around her:
“The world you live in is always being rewritten; it’s your job to find the narrative.”
From her point of view, stories are all around us, waiting to be discovered through deep observation.
More playful than any of the other writers I’ve mentioned is Neil Gaiman:
“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”
I like his notion that the writer has to be aware of those fleeting moments of inspiration.
Those are just a few of the writers I call upon to help my students discover their own pathways to their own ideas.
If I were teaching today, I’d continue to explore those writers, but I’d include several more, notably Elizabeth Gilbert, best known for her Eat, Pray, Love. From her point of view, ideas in all aspects of life–not just writing–are all around us, looking for homes.
“I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas. Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us, but capable of interacting with us — albeit strangely. Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human’s efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.” (Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, 2015)
I’m fascinated by Gilbert’s way of thinking. Her magical complexity attracts me, as does Robertson Davies’ straightforward simplicity about ideas:
“I do not ‘get’ ideas; ideas get me.”
And without a blush of shame, if I were teaching today, I’d talk more fully about sources for my own writing ideas. I did that in years past, but my focus was always on research ideas, unless I happened to be writing creative nonfiction essays with my students. In those instances, I’d workshop my essays with them, always sharing the backstories.
However, writing with my students was a luxury that I enjoyed on rare occasions only. I was too busy giving them feedback on their own creative flights. I suppose my professorial situation was comparable to the cobbler who has no shoes.
These days, though, as a master of reinvention, I’m able to focus on my own creative nonfiction essays, totally separate from my ongoing Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. As a matter of fact, since starting my reinvention in January 2022, I have two collections of creative nonfiction essays to my credit. In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023) was followed by More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed (2024). And in case you’re picking up on a pattern, I’ll have another book coming out in 2025, tentatively titled The Third Time’s the Charm: More Foolin’ Around in Bed. All of those books–and others that will follow–are part of my The Wired Researcher Series.
I’ve written a lot already about writers and writing. I’m thinking about several posts in particular:
● “The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free”: Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge.
● “In Praise of Break-Away Moments”: In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.
● “It’s Not a Corset. Don’t Force It”: My greatest discovery about my own writing is my everlasting need to unlace the corset that constricts my thoughts. It’s my everlasting need to let my ideas breathe and expand freely, whenever and however they wish.
● “Writers: Our Forever-Friends”: Maybe, just maybe, the need to have writers who are our forever-friends, boils down to nothing more than this. They come regardless of what we are facing. They reassure us that goodness and mercy shall prevail. They remind us to grapple with our soul, to grapple with our spirit.
● “Directions to the Magical Land of Ideas”: For me, it seems that whenever I lose myself–whenever I’m doing something that takes me away from me–a door opens and an idea enters, hoping for home and for honor.
In all of those essays, I’m doing what a number of writers whom I’ve mentioned do: exploring my own world. Like them, I also do my best to find in my personal experiences truths that might touch the heart and soul of my readers, whoever and wherever they are.
But one day last week, while doing my indoor biking, listening to Gospel music rock the rafters, it occurred to me that I had never written extensively about the sources for my ideas. But here’s the thing. I didn’t go looking for that idea. I mean, I was just biking and listening to music. Nothing more. Nothing less. And lo! In that ritualistic moment of pedaling and listening, the idea for this post took up residency in my mind.
The idea found its way to me. The idea chose me to be its human partner, just as Gilbert and Davies maintain their ideas find them.
I, too, believe that ideas find their way to me. I’m fascinated by that belief, not so much because that’s how my ideas arrive, but more so because of what’s going on with me when those ideas choose me for their partnership.
I’ve given the “what’s going on with me” a lot of thought, and I’m coming up with some common denominators.
Almost always, I’m engaged in an activity. Biking. Lifting weights. Listening to music. Cooking. Gardening. Hiking.
More often than not, when I’m engaged in those and similar activities, my world stands still. Time stops. Nothing exists except whatever it is that I’m doing. If I had to pick one word to describe what I’m experiencing in those times, I suppose it would be stillness.
Maybe the ideas “out there” looking for human partnerships sense my stillness. Maybe they sense my lostness. Maybe they sense my emptiness. And maybe–just maybe–they believe that I can escort them “out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.”
For now, especially in the absence of any other explanation that I can provide, I’ll hold fast to that belief since it has proven itself true time and time again in my magical world of words. For now, I’ll also hold fast to a smidgen of satisfaction in knowing that what I told my students really is true, especially for a writer like me:
“Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.”
“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”
—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)
Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.
I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.
We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.
Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.
Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.
Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.
I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.
I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.
The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.
Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.
A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.
I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?
I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.
Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.
Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.
The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.
Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.
To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.
As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.
This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.
“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”
—Mahatma Gandhi (1869–1948; a leader in India’s fight for independence and a global icon of nonviolent resistance, inspiring movements for civil rights and freedom worldwide.)
Every family has its own revered storytellers. For mine, it was my mother. All the way up until her death at 98, she could tell family stories with a full appreciation of place, with a natural understanding of hooking listeners with an inciting incident, and then of building suspense until the story was powerfully brought to its climax and to a resolution that more often than not uplifted and shone a bright light even on the dourest of plots.
Since my mother’s death, my sister Audrey has continued the storytelling tradition. It’s natural that she would. As the oldest daughter in the family, she lived the stories that she tells us about. What’s amazing to me is her incredible ability to recall how things looked, tasted, and smelled. As she tells our family stories, her voice carries me back in time, weaving memories as vivid as the scents and sounds she describes. Like my mother, she has a natural sense for drawing in listeners with something exciting, even if it’s minor, for building suspense masterfully and for guiding her story to a powerful ending. Her resolutions often uplift, always casting a bright light even on the hardest of hard coal mining times in Southern West Virginia where we grew up and where she still lives.
Since Audrey is my oldest sister, in characteristic Southern fashion, we’ve always called her Sister. On the rare occasion when I call her by her given name, just to remind myself of how it sounds and to see how she will react, she’s convinced that I’m upbraiding her about something or other, as if I, the baby brother in the story, would ever fault an older sibling.
Sister was twelve when I was born. She remembers that she and Brother argued about whose turn it was to rock me. (Yes, that’s what we called him since he was the oldest son. We never called him John.) They became rocking rivals:
“It’s my turn to rock Brentford Lee tonight.”
“No, it’s not. You rocked him last night.”
Sister reminds me often that I was rocked a lot.
I’ll have to take Sister’s word for it. I don’t remember.
My earliest vivid memory of Sister was when I was six or so, around 1953. Looking back and recalling a studio portrait of her from around that time, I think she looked just like acclaimed Hollywood star Rita Hayworth—elegant, with soft waves of hair framing a radiant face. She had a quiet beauty, captivating yet unassuming.
Aside from being a looker, Sister was an impeccable dresser. I especially remember her soft cashmere sweaters and her perfume, probably Chanel No. 5 or Arpège by Lanvin or Youth Dew by Estee Lauder. The next time we talk, I’ll ask her. She’ll remember it and all the other fragrances that she thought about wearing but didn’t. To give her fragrance story an added scent, she’ll explain all the details behind her perfumed choices. Then I’ll be able to smell her perfume again, just as I did when I was a kid, and I will know.
I remember two other things about Sister from my early years. It was then that she started her tradition of gifting our Mother heart-shaped boxes of Whitman’s Samplers every Valentine’s Day. They were magnificent, with tufted velvet tops and satin ribbons lending a touch of elegance to our coal camp home. Inside, layers of chocolates offered a variety of flavors like caramels, truffles, and fruit creams. The lavish packaging, combined with the rich selection of chocolates, made opening a Whitman’s Sampler a special Valentine’s Day event for my Mother.
Also, around that time, Sister patiently taught me how to embroider on pillowcases. I was immediately captivated by the array of colored threads—so vibrant and alive in my small hands. The soft yarn felt like magic as I pulled it through the fabric, creating tiny, neat stitches that transformed the plain cloth into something beautiful. Each new stitch felt like a secret unfolding. I marveled at how these simple threads could bring flowers, shapes, and patterns to life. The rhythmic motion of needle and thread became a calming, almost meditative ritual, sparking a lifelong appreciation for craftsmanship.
I remember other things about Sister as well, but this story isn’t about the things that most women born in 1935 lived their lives doing. I could say that this story isn’t about endless labor, both inside and outside the home. I could say that this story isn’t about scrubbing laundry on washboards, hanging clothes on backyard lines to dry in summer sun and winter freeze. I could say that this story isn’t about mending torn seams by hand or pressing starched clothes with a heavy iron heated on a stove. I could say that this story isn’t about cooking tonight’s meal and wondering about where provisions for the next night’s meal would come from. I could say that this story isn’t about waitressing for decades on less than minimum wage while hoping for just a little more than the nickels or dimes or quarters left behind as afterthought tips. I could say that this is not a story about hands carrying out daily chores with unwavering strength and care.
In reality, Sister did all of those things. But she did one thing more, and it matters most in this story.
For five decades, Sister’s hands served others whose hands were not strong enough to take care of themselves in their final years.
For them, Sister’s hands were a source of comfort and strength in the hardest times. Her hands were the ones that soothed fevered brows and prepared meals that nourished more than just the body. They carefully arranged pillows, tucked in blankets, and held on during the darkest moments. They brushed away tears and wiped the sweat from a forehead when words weren’t enough.
Her hands folded laundry, served meals, and held on when strength was needed the most. Whether it was a gentle touch in passing or the firm grip during a time of fear, her hands were always there, ready to offer love and care. Sister’s hands held those who needed it, day after day, year after year, never asking for anything in return.
Sister’s hands offered all of those comforts to our father in his final days, and to Brother’s wife, caring for her with tenderness. They lovingly attended to our mother until the very end, and they held her fiancé as their shared future faded away. Lastly, they cared for Brother—our parents’ firstborn and her first playmate—offering him unwavering love and support as he faced his final days.
On this special day, as Sister turns 89, her hands still carry the same love and strength they’ve always given.
When the time comes for Sister to cross the Great Divide, her hands will be clapping jubilantly, knowing that on the other side will be those she loved so much and served so selflessly. They’ll be there waiting to greet her once more, to applaud her decades of selfless love, compassion, and service, and to gently wipe away the tears of reunion and celebration.
Gobsmacked! That’s what I am! Here’s why. With nearly four months still left in the year, my blog just reached 10,000 views. I know exactly when it hit five digits because I was waiting and watching. I had my Smartphone in hand when the magical moment occurred at 7:45 this morning!
I wish I knew who the 10,000th viewer was—I’d reach out with a warm embrace. But since I don’t, I’m reaching out to all 10,000 of you instead—let’s embrace one another! In the spirit of Bob Marley’s words: “One love, one heart. Let’s join together and feel all right!”
Your engagement, curiosity, and support have blown me away. Whether you’re a longtime reader or just joined the journey, you’ve all played a role in this milestone. Together, we’ll keep pushing boundaries, asking big questions, and exploring new ideas!
Before I go, I’d like to share this year’s five most-viewed posts that have helped soar us to 10,000 views. If you haven’t read these yet, check them out!
Glimpses of my Mother’s Hands ● Through vivid memories of her tender, industrious, and spiritual hands, I explore the profound impact my mother’s hands had on shaping my life—from creating magic in everyday moments to offering strength, care, and faith until her final farewell.
Vermont’s Literary Daughter: Brent L. Kendrick on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman ● In my interview on the Vermont Artists and Authors podcast, I discuss the legacy of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my collection Green Mountain Stories, emphasizing Freeman’s significance as a Vermont writer and my hopes for her stories to inspire readers, libraries, and schools across the state.
Confessions of an Editor: THE INFANT SPHINX Reviewed ● I delve into the serendipitous journey of editing and publishing The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, while sharing for the first time ever the full text of a forgotten self-review I wrote nearly 40 years ago, offering insights into Freeman’s life, my editorial process, and the lasting impact of her letters.
When Lilacs Meet Algorithms: The Unlikely Union of Walt Whitman and Artificial Intelligence (AI) ● I explore the unexpected intersection of Walt Whitman’s elegy “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” with artificial intelligence, as I challenge AI tools to distill the essence of the poem into sonnets, revealing the potential for AI to complement human creativity while reflecting on the power of poetry.
From Dusty Folder to Digital Ink. Part I: The Untold Story of THE INFANT SPHINX ● I recount the serendipitous journey behind the publication of The Infant Sphinx, from a bold encounter with the president of Scarecrow Press to the Herculean task of preparing camera-ready copy, offering readers a glimpse into the untold backstory of my scholarly work.
Thank you, Dear Readers, from the bottom of my heart!