“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.
“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.
“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.
“The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.”
–Attributed to Mark Twain (1835-1910; one of America’s most celebrated writers and humorists; often referred to as the “father of American literature.”)
By now, MyDearReaders, you know more about me than you should, including the titillating fact that I keep everything. I mean everything. I do. If you doubt me or if you have forgotten my-way-too-personal disclosures, check out “My Taxing Review: A Reality Post” or “OHIO on My Mind,” but not until you finish reading this post. Until then, you’re mine, all mine. I want to keep you to myself. Stay put and relax while I tell you about something I’ve held on to without even knowing that I was holding on to it.
I realized just the other day that I was getting an outlandish number of emails from companies, foundations, and organizations, just because I gave them my email address eons ago, simply to get that 15% discount or simply to get a freebie by donating to a good cause. Over time, “DELETE” became my morning email mantra simply because it never occurred to me that I could stop getting those no-longer-wanted and no-longer-valued emails simply by clicking on UNSUBSCRIBE.
UNSUBSCRIBE. Can you imagine. Is that a brilliant solution or what? Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, right? Wrong. More like stressed, depressed lemon zest.
Sometimes, though not too often, unsubscribing is easy. The option appears prominently right at the top of the email.
More often than not, however, I have to work really hard at unsubscribing. More often than not, the option appears hidden amongst all kinds of other options at the very end of the screed that I didn’t want to read anyway. Even then, the option to unsubscribe is in a smaller font requiring a magnifying glass, or it’s in an entirely different color font, almost always so light that it’s impossible to read. And get this. Sometimes, I don’t have a clear unsubscribe option at all. Sometimes, I blaze my way to unsubscribe by clicking on the preferences option.
Unsubscribing, as a rule, is anything but straightforward. Even after finding my way there, I have to confirm that I really do want to sever the tie that I had been holding on to. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice.
I cannot help but wonder what other areas in our lives we might want to think twice about before taking action.
What about things we often say things to friends in moments of emotion or impulsiveness, forgetting that words can have lasting impacts.
● “I’m too busy right now.”
● “I don’t really care what you do.”
● “I don’t know why I’m even friends with you.”
Perhaps if we paused and considered the weight of our words, we could strengthen our friendships rather than strain them.
Or consider the dynamics of family relationships, where familiarity sometimes leads us to make careless remarks.
● “I’ll call you later.” (But never do.)
● “Why can’t you be more like …?”
● “You’ve always been a disappointment to me.”
Perhaps we need to pause for a moment to remember that our words can either heal or hurt, especially with those closest to us.
Let’s not forget our professional environments where words can carry significant consequences, especially with our boss.
● “I’ll get to it when I can.”
● “That’s not my job.”
● “I think you’re making a big mistake.”
Perhaps we need to pause and remember the powerful importance of tact and diplomacy when communicating with authority figures.
Also, I wonder about our constant self-talk, especially when we become our own harshest critics.
● “I can’t believe I messed that up.”
● “I’m not good enough for this.”
● “I’m not lovable.”
Perhaps we need to think twice before engaging in negative self-talk and instead replace it with a kinder, more supportive internal dialogue that sends us a strong, empowering message.
Finally, what about thinking twice before questioning or challenging our higher spiritual and philosophical beliefs?
● “I don’t know if you’re really there.”
● “Why is this happening to me?”
● “I’ve lost all faith.”
Perhaps we need to pause and approach our beliefs with respect and thoughtfulness in a way that fosters a sense of reconciliation and growth.
Oh. There’s one more thing that I’ve noticed. More often than not, the last thing that happens when unsubscribing is a pop-up window, sighing:
“Sorry to see you go, but if you change your mind …”
It seems to me that if foundations, organizations, and companies are willing to have us back after we unsubscribe from their mailing lists, then surely our friends, our family, our boss, and our Higher Being, will welcome us back into the fold as well. And with any luck, we’ll even come to understand that we are worthy and welcome unto our very selves.
One thing’s for sure. The next time I consider unsubscribing—from an email or a relationship—I’ll remember the power of pausing before acting. And if I act in a way that I later regret, I’ll remind myself that our relationships, like our subscriptions, can often be mended with effort and humility.
Down and dirty and pumped. Yep. That’s what I am. And I’ve had one helluva good time getting there. For the last week or so, I’ve been manhandling the garden that I moaned and groaned about in “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”
Remember? I was working in my 70-foot garden, a serene haven that runs along the east side of my home. The garden starts with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into a Koi Pond and ends with a towering granite Pagoda. A flagstone walkway curves between these two focal points, with a bog garden on one side, originally full of Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Cardinal Flower and Pond Sedge, and a specimen garden on the other, showcasing Clumping Bamboo, Hinoki Cypress, Flowering Crabapple, and more.
It was everything I ever wanted in a small garden—until the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo began taking over. Then, it became something that I … never wanted.
At first, I thought cutting back the invasive plants would solve the problem, but they kept returning, seemingly stronger each time. The roots were thriving beneath the surface, undeterred by my efforts. Now, I faced a choice: keep battling the tops or dig up the deep, stubborn roots once and for all.
I made the right choice, the only one for me. I decided to do the hard work now and reclaim my garden.
I knew right away that I needed the big guys to get the job done. The first was my 40-inch, fiber-glass-handle trenching spade. It’s lightweight but has a penchant for heavy-duty roughness. With a backstep that provides increased leverage, it’s perfect for getting beneath the roots and lifting them out.
The second is a handheld, dual-headed, carbon steel big guy. It’s great to use when I’m sitting on the ground, really getting down and dirty, digging up roots that the spade didn’t lift out. One head is a pick that goes deep with every thrust; the other, a fork that yanks out mass roots with every pull.
I’ve been putting both big guys to good use for the last week or so, during which time I’ve learned a lot about roots.
First, roots grow in places that I didn’t even know existed. Imagine it, and I can find roots there. Second, roots can be long, really long. I’ve dug out some that were even 10 feet long. Most have been around 3 or 4 feet. Third, roots love to grow beneath flagstone pavers, beneath rocks, and even in and amongst roots of other plants, making the smell of Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar” a reality:
“Shoots dangled and drooped, Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates, Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes. And what a congress of stinks!”
Fourth, roots grow in clay and rubble where nothing else would dare stake out a claim to life on less-than-meager fare.
Even though I’ve learned a lot, it’s been drudgery. By the end of a day’s work–a kind of outdoor dirt prayer–my hands feel arthritic from sustained gripping, and my blue jeans are knee- and butt-dirty from kneeling and sitting. But I do what I do not only to control the roots and but also to give me the fleeting assurance that they don’t control me.
I won’t tell you about other things that happened while digging up roots, like adding scalloped stone edging along the walkway or relocating a granite pagoda lantern to a slightly higher spot or popping in a new evergreen shrub or three here and there to brighten the fresh layer of pine bark mulch.
And if I’m not going to tell you about all of those enhancements, then I’m certainly not going to tell you about how open and expansive my specimen garden feels now, with all the Bamboo and Pond Sedge gone–tops above and roots below. I know. I know. It’s no bigger than it ever was, but it looks twice as big as ever.
But don’t worry. I’ve got some important observations that I’m about to share with you. They’re important to me, and, hopefully, they’ll resonate with you, too.
For starters, I’m delighted that I had the daring-do to tackle root removal of this magnitude. Even though I still have more work to do, I sprawl out on the ground from time to time, celebrating what I’m accomplishing, knowing that in gardening, as in life, superficial fixes won’t solve deep-rooted problems. Just like with my invasive plants, truly eliminating an issue requires getting to the root of it. Whether in health, relationships, career, or broader societal issues, confronting and removing the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives.
But get this. As I sprawl in celebration, I do so modestly. I claim no victory. I know that these roots run deep. I know that these roots run wherever they’re inclined to run. I know that remnants of these roots remain, and that probably by the end of this season, Bamboo and Pond Sedge will sprout up here and there all over again. I know that these roots have a tenacious hold.
Those gardening observations remind me that even though roots–literal and metaphorical–may need to be removed when they cause problems, most of the time, roots are essential anchors that ground us.
I’m thinking, for example, about my love of the outdoors. My connections to nature and the environment serve as a grounding force, offering me peace, perspective, and a sense of renewal. Those roots go back to my childhood and even further back to generations of farmers who make up my heritage. Even during periods of my life when I lived in cities, I always found ways to allow the natural world to dig deep into the fiber of my being.
Or here’s another example. My love of cooking. It runs in my family, including my father and my brothers. We felt as much at home over the kitchen stove as we did anywhere else. Let me add to that our love of ethnic foods. I can trace those roots back to my childhood and my cultural heritage in the coal camps of Southern West Virginia. Our little town was a melting pot of nationalities, and everyone shared recipes with one another. Greek Green Beans. Hungarian Chocolate Potato Cake. Caribbean Souse Meat. Polish Cabbage Rolls. Italian Gnocchi. Jewish Latkes. Those ethnic foods and many others continue to tease my palate and provide a sense of belonging.
Or what about the roots that anchor my simple philosophy of life? I believe in the inherent goodness of life, all life. I believe that life is purposeful. I believe in life’s thrust toward greatness. When I look into my metaphorical mirror, I always say, “Every day in every way, I grow a little better.” Those principles—learned in childhood—have always directed my actions and my choices, and they continue to help me navigate my life.
Even when it comes to my notion of community and social connections, my roots run deep. From childhood, I learned to value and embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion. It’s part of who I am. I like to think that I have always been sensitive to race, ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, age, and other unique variations that make us human. Because of those roots, I like to think that regardless of where I might be in the world, I will always enjoy a sense of belonging, and I will always lend a helping hand to those around me.
Also, my work ethic has deep roots. I was born into a working family, and I grew up in a working community. Everyone worked, and, equally important, everyone enjoyed working. Working is what we did. I’ve shared before–and I’ll share it again–the little poem that I cut my teeth on:
“If a job is once begun, Never leave until it’s done. Be its labor, great or small, Do it well or not at all.”
Later on in school, one of my history teachers reminded me and my classmates regularly of the Biblical proverb, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Her voice echoes still. Even today–after a 25-year federal career and a subsequent 23-year teaching career–I’m reinventing myself, working as much now as ever. Work continues to give me stability, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. I have every expectation that I will work forever and beyond.
My education and learning roots run deep, too. Even though I grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia, I had some of the best educators in the world, formally and informally. Because of them, I came to believe that an education allows anyone to do anything and to go anywhere. I came to believe that an education is the best investment ever, knowing that it will never depreciate and knowing that no one can ever take it away. I came to believe that learning is lifelong, requiring little more than an inquiring mind focusing on the 5 W’s of writing and journalism: Who, What, When, Where, and Why. What a powerful and empowering foundation for growth.
Personal resilience is a root for me as well, always anchoring me during challenging times. I believe in the power to adapt and grow in any circumstance. I practice what my mother taught me, “Bloom where you’re planted.” I’ve spent a lifetime doing just that. My childhood dream of becoming a college professor was deferred until I turned fifty. Nonetheless, I thrived during those intervening years and had a distinguished career at the Library of Congress. Those 25 years paved the way for me to become a college professor and helped make me the educator that I became.
Intertwined with it all, of course, are the roots of my faith and spirituality. Both have always played a role in my life. My mother was a fundamentalist minister and prayer warrior whose influence on my life is immeasurable. I have always felt that my life was governed by an Unseen Hand, even in times when I was unaware that I was being led. It gives me a sense of connection and grounding, in all times but especially in times of uncertainty. Don’t ask me to explain the Unseen Hand. I’m not sure that I could even begin to do so, other than to celebrate my belief that my God is a big God who loves all creation and who embraces all creation.
So, there you have it. Roots. They anchor us, shape us, and sometimes challenge us. Whether in the garden, where I wrestle with the stubborn roots of Pond Sedge and Bamboo, or in life, where I draw strength from the deep roots of my beliefs, family, and experiences, they are always there. They remind me that while we may need to dig deep to address life’s challenges, we also need to nurture the roots that sustain us.
Every day, as I work in the garden or reflect on the day’s events, I’m reminded that roots are both the foundation and the framework of our lives. They’re what give us stability when the winds of change blow, what nourish us in times of need, and what connect us to the larger world around us.
And as I continue to tend to my garden, both literal and metaphorical, I know that I’m not just removing what doesn’t belong—I’m also nurturing what does. In the end, it’s the roots that keep us grounded, it’s the roots that keep us growing, and it’s the roots that remind us of who we are and where we come from.
Every day, in every way, I grow a little better—roots and all.
“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”
–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)
Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:
“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”
I can relate. Underyourboot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.
Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.
Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:
“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”
At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:
“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).
Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.
Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.
On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.
I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.
The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.
It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.
But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.
It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.
I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.
“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”
Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.
“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”
In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.
Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.
I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.
It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.
As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.
I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.
You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).
It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.
Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.
If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.
Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.
Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.
We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.
On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.
Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.
These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.
“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way.It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”
–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)
When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.
Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.
I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.
Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.
After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.
I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.
Whatif I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.
Whatif I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.
Whatif I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.
Whatif I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.
I put those whatifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.
But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.
Let me explain.
I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.
I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.
And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.
Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.
There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.
More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.
Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:
● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?
● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?
● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?
● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?
● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?
I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?
“A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.”
–Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century.)
Houses come. Houses go. Some we remember. Some we don’t. Usually, though, the house that we remember the most is the one that we call home. For me, it was the house that I lived in from the age of ten (when I started the fifth grade) until the age of seventeen (when I graduated from high school, left home, and started college). We moved there in the summer of 1957.
It wasn’t much of a house. White clapboard siding. Front porch with wooden columns. Living room. Kitchen. Two bedrooms. Screened back porch. Unfinished basement. Outhouse. The woods on one side were so close that the trees seemed to brush against the windowpanes even in the gentlest breeze.
It wasn’t much of a move, either, maybe a mile south of where we had been renting. That fall, I went to the same grade school that I had attended since we moved to Shady Spring. I remember standing in the school yard with Mr. Pack, my English teacher. I pointed to the house, calling his attention to the side stairs that led up to the screened-in back porch.
But this house was different from the others. This house was our home. Well, it would be one day if my parents could stay on top of the mortgage payments. It didn’t have a white picket fence, and it needed lots of “fixin’ up.” But it was our slice of the American Dream.
Fixin’ up was right up my father’s alley. Even though he was a coal miner, he was, in many ways, a visionary. When we moved in, my father saw many things that he could do that would turn what had been a tucked-away summer place into our year-round home.
I remember lots of his improvements because I was his helper. Straightaway, he and I started clearing the adjacent lot. Our home was still in the woods but no longer against the trees. I helped him take the back porch and turn it into a dining room opening into the kitchen. The two of us mixed cement in a wheelbarrow and poured a floor in the large unfinished basement, where my father framed out two bedrooms, a downstairs kitchen, and a bathroom. We tilled the field across the road and turned the thin layer of soil on top of the rock shelf into a garden, perfect for sturdy stalks of corn rising up like sentinels with delicate tendrils of green beans gracefully twining around them. The dry, clay soil seemed ideal for sunflowers, too. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of me kneeling –sun-bleached hair, radiant smile–holding a sunflower so large that it covered my chest.
Looking back at the initial hard work and the eventual improvements, I see my father’s unwavering determination. He saw potential where others saw obstacles, teaching me the importance of perseverance and the transformative power of a dream fueled by love. This house was more than a structure. It was a testament to his resilience and dedication to our family’s future.
But more than any of those memories is the memory of my father at the dinner table. I was the youngest child, the last one at home eating with my parents.
My mother, who always said grace, sat at the head of the table, looking toward the wall at the other end, with a large oil painting of the Last Supper. My father sat to her left, gazing through his bifocals out of the large picture window in the dining room that he had built. I sat to his left, looking toward the window as well, with a golden candle sconce on each side, their glass shades gently casting a warm glow on holidays or when we had company.
I turned toward my father and my mother a lot, usually talking with my mother. My father was, by nature, a reserved man, and after talking about his day’s work in the mines and about his strategy for loading more cars of coal the next day, he didn’t have much to say other than to praise what my mother had prepared for dinner or to respond to something that my mother or I said that required his response. I didn’t think anything about his silence then. I don’t think anything about his silence now. It was as natural to my father as being talkative was to me and my mother.
But as I watched him looking out our dining room picture window, I wondered then–and I wonder now–what my father saw.
No doubt he saw the present.
He had a multitude of snapshot possibilities. In his immediate line of vision would have been our lower terraced yard concealing an elaborate and fully provisioned underground bomb shelter that my father built. Further down the sloped yard was the meandering creek. My father planted an apple tree next to it that still bears fruit. Across the creek, another small garden. One summer, my father erected six or so towering structures, made from large sapling poles. He planted his favorite Kentucky Wonder beans around them. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of him standing inside one of the green-bean teepees. Long, smooth beans hanging down met his calloused, coal-sooted hands, reaching up.
Beyond that snapshot would have been the homes of three neighbors on Rt. 3. We always called it the Hinton Road because it connected our town to Hinton and the world beyond. More important than those neighbors’ homes, though, was the immense towering oak. My father stood beneath it, waiting for his ride to the mines, day after day after day, stretching out to the final day of his fifty-year career as a coal miner, never missing a day’s work.
Looking back, I see my father surveying the tangible results of his hard work and vision. Each tree planted, each structure built or improved, was a testament to his ability to transform dreams into reality. His daily routines, anchored by resilience and a relentless work ethic, spoke to the value of dedication. Even in the most ordinary moments, my father’s presence embodied commitment to our family and our future. His view from the window wasn’t just of our present home. It was of a legacy he was building, one that would endure long after he was gone.
No doubt he saw his past.
His mind likely wandered to his most recent past, the bankruptcy that bottomed out his short-lived dream of being a prosperous coal-mining operator on par with the company-store owner. It prompted our move from Ashland to Shady Spring.
Perhaps he saw his early coal mining years in the late nineteen teens and the 1920s. He was an activist for the United Mine Workers of America and a staunch supporter of its president, John L. Lewis. Somewhere, I have my father’s first UMWA membership card.
Perhaps he saw even further back to Patrick Springs, Virginia, where his farming family had Colonial American roots and where he was born there in 1902. Perhaps he saw the day when, as a teenager, he left home and boarded the Danville and Western Railroad. He made his way to Cherokee, WV, to make a life in the booming coal heartland of America.
Looking back at my father’s journey from a farmer’s son to a coal miner to an advocate for workers’ rights, I see a man who never let his circumstances define him. His past was marked by hard work, sacrifice, and an unyielding spirit. These experiences shaped his character, instilling in him a relentless drive to provide and care for his family, despite the hardships he faced. His past was not just a series of events, but a foundation of strength and resilience that he built upon every day.
No doubt he sawhis future.
Perhaps my father saw the day when I would go to college, leaving him and my mother to explore their new roles as empty nesters. They always waited for me and my five siblings to come back home for visits.
Perhaps he envisioned some of his many innovative ideas coming to fruition in the marketplace. He made copper jewelry, believing that it provided therapeutic benefits for arthritis sufferers. (My father’s idea was not far-fetched: copper jewelry began to be marketed in the early 1970s.)
He also had a vision for extension ladders with adjustable legs, designed for painting homes built on sloped yards like ours, and he even built a prototype. (Again, my father’s idea was ahead of its time: extension ladders with adjustable legs for working on slopes began appearing on the market around the early 2000s.)
One of his more futuristic ideas involved cars moving along highways, advancing magnetically to specific destinations designated by the driver at the start of the journey. (This concept, while far-fetched in its time, became reality with the marketing of self-driving cars in the mid-2010s.)
Perhaps my father saw into his final years. I wonder whether his body was telling him early on what his doctors told him later. Black Lung. Third Stage Silicosis. I wonder whether his heart saw a 1982 Golden Wedding Anniversary. I wonder whether his soul foresaw a calm and peaceful passage heavenward a year later.
Looking back at my father gazing out the window, envisioning the future, I realize that he saw possibilities that others didn’t. His innovative ideas and forward-thinking mindset were a testament to his enduring hope and determination. Even in the face of illness and the unknown, he remained focused on what could be, leaving a legacy of optimism and ingenuity. His ability to dream beyond the present instilled in me the same fervor and faith in the future.
Whatever my father saw–whether his present, his past, or his future–I have not a doubt in the world that he was looking through the same metaphorical lens that he held up to my eyes when he taught me as a young boy how to use a push plow to lay out a perfectly straight row in the field.
“Don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed on something in the distance where you want the row to end.”
He was teaching me far more than how to plow a straight row. He was teaching me how to live my life in a way that mirrored his. Maintain a clear vision. Stay focused on long-term objectives. Persevere through challenges with resilience and determination.
That’s what my father saw.
§ § §
John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)
“To finish the moment, to find the journey’s end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.”
–Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement in the mid-19th century. The quote is from his essay “Experience.”)
Last year, as autumn’s chill set in, I stood before my peony bed, an expansive testament to thirty years of nurturing. I vowed to rejuvenate it. I like to think that my peonies are sturdy—they are. I like to think that they’re strong—they are. I like to think that they’ll live forever—they will, with proper care, including digging, lifting, dividing, and replanting the tubers every fifteen years or so.
My peonies were long overdue a re-do. Somehow, though, despite my resolve and the shared anticipation, winter arrived, masking the overgrown bed beneath a blanket of snow. “It can wait until spring,” I reassured myself, delaying the inevitable.
With the arrival of spring, of course, came the return of my senses. (Spring is not the season to dig up and replant peony tubers.) It also brought the return of reality. (Briars, weeds, and saplings survive all seasons, always returning stronger than ever.)
Additionally, my peony bed is just one of my garden beds. Yet, I am only one, tending to many. While I recognize that I am a mighty force to be reckoned with, my garden beds sometimes seem mightier. But with spring also came the return of my determination to get my peony bed in shape.
So, it came to be. In the stillness of one morning filled with unimaginable promise, I set out to “do the needful” as I like to call any odious task that must be done. Not long into my doing, I found myself wishing that I had it done, all of it. Right then. Right there. Right now. I sat there on the cold, damp ground, wishing my peony bed into the state of perfection that I dreamt of it being. Right then. Right there. Right now.
In that same wishful moment, I shook my head in disbelief. I knew that my wish was impossible. I could not, in a moment, reclaim a garden bed that had gotten away from me, moment after moment, day after day, month after month, season after season, year after year. Aside from the impossibility of achieving instantly what I knew would take time to achieve, I shook my head in disbelief, wondering why I, an avid and seasoned gardener, would even contemplate wishing to be finished with my gardening just when I had started it?
I knew the answer. “Right Now” had become my gardening tyrant. I had been lulled into the desire to have my desired outcomes without putting in the required work.
I know first-hand that as a rule in life, we get what we work for. I know first-hand that as a rule in life, if it’s worth having, it’s worth waiting for.
But I realized more than those obvious truths. To have my peony bed restored to my longed-for state of perfection instantly–in one fell swoop, if you will–would deprive me with equal speed of all the pleasures that gardening always brings.
It would deprive me of a succession of days strung out like a strand of precious pearls as I get down and dirty.
It would deprive me of letting my hands take the temperature of the soil, feeling the cool, damp earth cradled in my palms, a subtle gauge of the season’s transition.
It would deprive me of letting my eyes look skyward, watching the clouds drift and gather as I take measure of the day’s weather, or of letting them look downward, studying the intricate network of roots between my clasped fingers, each one a testament to nature’s resilience.
It would deprive me of letting my nose smell the earthy, musty, and slightly sweet scents of decaying leaves and grasses from yesteryear, a rich concoction of aromas that evoke the passage of time and the cycle of life.
It would deprive me of letting my heart pound wildly as my blacksnake slithers unexpectedly from nowhere, its cool, smooth scales brushing against the skinscape of my forearm, sending a jolt of surprise and awe as it continues its mysterious journey to somewhere.
It would deprive me of all the joy and fulfillment that comes from the process and the journey. I would miss it all, all because I wanted it all. Right then. Right there. Right now.
No doubt I could come up with other deprivations if I dug deeper. But sitting amidst my peony bed, caught between the reality of briars and saplings and the dream of blossoming flowers, I realized the insidious nature of the tyranny of “Right Now.” If we’re not careful, it can infiltrate every facet of our existence, threatening to strip away the very essence of the joy we seek.
Just as in gardening, the tryanny of “Right Now”–this desire for immediacy–can manifest itself in numerous ways and hinder our experiences in many areas of life:
● personal growth and self-improvement: rushing into self-help quick fixes. ● relationships: expecting instant gratification in love. ● career development: trying to reach the top overnight. ● health and wellness: following fad diets and workout routines. ● financial management: falling for get-rich-quick schemes. ● learning and education: wanting to earn a degree immediately. ● creativity: aspiring to become an artistic genius instantly. ● spiritual growth and mindfulness: seeking enlightenment at the click of the keyboard. ● aging and dying: not taking time to enjoy life’s final lessons.
As I reflect, I’m grateful for the lesson this gardening journey has taught me. It’s not about the destination. It’s about the journey itself—the process, the progress, the growth. Whether nurturing peonies or nurturing our own lives, it’s the patience and perseverance, the embracing of the journey, that truly enriches our souls and helps us escape the tyranny of “Right Now.”
“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.”
—Carl Jung (1875-1961; a Swiss psychiatrist and psychoanalyst who founded analytical psychology; explored the human psyche, emphasizing the importance of integrating the conscious and unconscious aspects of the self.)
The air is sweet with success all around the world as another academic year draws to a close. A rightful sense of accomplishment and pride abounds as graduates, their families and friends, educators who guided them, and communities that supported them come together to celebrate this momentous occasion. It’s a milestone that marks the culmination of years of hard work, dedication, and perseverance, as graduates have demonstrated their commitment to excellence in various forms.
As I reflect on my own academic celebrations down through the years as an educator and as a student, one stands taller than the rest: Alderson-Broaddus University’s Honors Convocation on April 5, 1997. Held in Wilcox Chapel, it was the university’s forty-fourth annual convocation, and I was the speaker. I can’t begin to express how honored I was to be returning to my alma mater to speak on such an important occasion. What made it even more special was the fact that the invitation came from a former classmate, Dr. Kenneth Yount. Ken and I were both 1969 A-B grads, and as seniors, he was President of Student Government, and I was Vice-President. Ken went on to become A-B’s Provost/Vice-President for Academic Affairs, and, when he invited me to come back home to our mountaintop campus, I was serving as the Training Coordinator, United States Copyright Office, the Library of Congress.
In delivering my remarks, I had one goal: ignite a spark of introspection and perseverance among those being honored and those in attendance. I believe that my remarks achieved that goal, and I believe that what I had to say then is equally relevant to graduates today whenever they might be on their journey to tomorrow.
I am honored to share my remarks today with readers all around the world.
“Winning from Within”
Dr. Yount, President Markwood, Faculty, Honored Students, Parents, Guests: thank you for such a warm welcome.
When Dr. Yount invited me here today, he asked that I do three things. First, he asked me to sprinkle my remarks with humor. Second, he asked that I speak from the heart about what Alderson-Broaddus has meant to me. Third, he asked that I talk about academic excellence. As an aside, he noted that I had to do all this–make you laugh, make you cry, and make you think–in no more than 15 minutes. What a challenge. In fact, I confess that it makes me feel rather like a mosquito in a nudist colony. I know exactly what I’m supposed to do. I just don’t know quite where to begin.
Thank you for your laughter. You prove that I can be humorous. Believing brevity to be the soul of wit, now let me speak from the heart, from the heart about my experience here at A-B, from the heart about excellence, and from the heart about winning from within.
I do so willingly. I spent four wonderful years on this mountaintop. They were so good, in fact, that I would live them again, and never once say, “If I knew then what I know now.” That’s no small concession, considering that I will turn fifty later this year. But I would live those four years again, because I am able to say–and do say, day after day–that A-B touched my life in ways that made lasting differences.
Let me explain. I grew up in a small town, the sixth child of a West Virginia coal miner. My mom and dad always provided well for us, but in reality, they lived rather anxiously from coal-strike to coal-strike, from pay-check to pay-check. But they rose above those financial challenges and instilled in my brothers and sisters and me a work ethic, the likes of which I have never seen. They made us know that there is nobility in work, that there is honor in work, that there is dignity in work, and that there is love in work. My dad labored for fifty years in the coal mines, but neither he nor my mother ever said to me, “You can’t grow up to be a coal miner.” Instead, they taught me this, and it stands as my earliest lesson, my greatest tribute to them:
If a job is once begun, Never leave until it’s done. Be its labor great or small, Do it well, or not at all.
That quote has governed my life–shaped my life–in ways that probably only a psychiatrist could unravel. But at least one part of it is woven in a continuous thread that requires no untwisting. As early as the fourth grade, I fell in love with words and how words relate to one another and how they serve as building blocks for ideas. I fell in love with the eight parts of speech. I fell in love with diagraming sentences. I took my parents’ guidance at face value and applied it to my love of English.
My classmates, of course, had no idea of how possessed I was by my love of the language. They had an even more feeble understanding of how driven I was by the work ethic that my parents had instilled in me. But I was possessed by my love of words. And I was driven by my work of putting words together. And if my classmates did not quite understand it then, they soon came to realize that they had better step out of my way whenever it came to moving to the front of the class in spelling bees, in parsing, in diagraming sentences, in writing assignments, and in essay competitions. Those honors and all those related to English were mine exclusively. I had claimed them. I knew the subject. I loved the subject. And I had no fear of hard work.
I can reflect smugly on my childhood accomplishments now. They were not easy accomplishments then. Every trip to the front of the class was characterized by no small degree of fear and trepidation. After all, I was only nine years old. But I believed my parents and never once questioned their guidance. I studied hard, worked hard, and played hard at what I loved to do. I knew from the start that my life’s labor would center around English, teaching English, whatever that might have meant to a fourth grader. I thought then that it meant, somehow, making the world a better place by helping others understand the parts of speech and helping them diagram sentences so that they could express their ideas clearly and, obviously, in a grammatically correct manner. Much later in school, I learned what the study of the English language really entailed, but in my nine-year-old world, it was quite sufficient for me to believe that studying English was a great labor, to know that my accomplishments in the field outdistanced my classmates. and to know that I would not leave my pursuit until it was done.
Looking back, I am not too surprised by this turn of events in my life. Remember. I grew up in a small coal mining town. We had no library. Now let me tell you this. We had only two books in our house: the King James version of the Bible and Webster’s dictionary. My mother dog-eared the pages of the Bible and preached and prayed it to the rest of us. Though always mindful of–and let me add influenced by–her spiritual travels, I dog-eared Webster and pursued my own adventures with the English language.
Imagine my parents’ surprise when I declared, again, as a fourth grader, that I was not only going to college but also that I was going to complete a doctoral degree in English. I had not the foggiest idea of how I, in a coal-strike to coal- strike, pay-check to pay-check household, would ever get there. But I believed fully that if I followed by parents’ guidance, stuck with what I loved, worked hard at it, somehow, the door would be opened. I went forward with blind faith, declaring finally in my senior year that I was going to West Virginia University or to the University of Richmond. I applied to both. Then I met Tom Bee, the Admissions Counselor here at A-B, when he visited my high school. I had no idea that his visit would redefine my life. But it did. He encouraged me to apply to A-B. I did and was accepted here as well as at my other two choices.
Thank God, Alderson-Broaddus saw my needs. It saw my needs financially. Remember my dad, the coal miner. It saw my needs spiritually. Remember my mother, the prayer warrior. It saw my needs intellectually. Remember my dream of becoming an English teacher.
How well I remember the summer of 1965 when I visited this campus for the first time. I had no decision to make. I knew from the start, in the inner recesses of my soul, that I was home, not in the Robert Frost sense that “Home is the place that when you have to go there, they have to take you in” but rather in his sense of the word that “Home is something you somehow haven’t to deserve.” I am not certain I deserved the home that Alderson-Broaddus made for me when it took me in, in 1965. And I am even less certain that I deserve to be invited back on an occasion of this importance. But it’s good to be home again, and I thank you heartily.
I use as the springboard for my remarks today an oft-told story about an event that took place in Thailand. The year, 1957. The city, Bangkok. The players, a group of monks and a group of construction workers. The situation, a new highway that was to run smack dab in the middle of the temple. The monks had to move a 10 ½ foot tall clay Buddha from their temple to make room for progress. When the crane began to lift the giant idol, the weight of it was so tremendous that it began to crack. The head monk–the abbot–aside from being concerned about the immediate damage, became even more alarmed as rain began to fall. He ordered that the statue be lowered to the ground and that it be covered with a large canvas tarp to protect it from the rain.
Later that night, the abbot went to check on the Buddha. He shined his flashlight under the tarp to see if it was staying dry. As the light reached the crack, he noticed a gleam shining back. He looked closer at the gleam of light, believing that there was something underneath the clay. He fetched a hammer and chisel and began to chip away at the clay. As he knocked off shards of clay, the gleam grew brighter and brighter, and by morning, the abbot stood face to face with an extraordinary solid gold Buddha, weighing more than 5 tons.
Historians believe that several hundred years earlier, monks had covered the Buddha with an outer covering of clay to keep their treasure from being looted by an invading Burmese army. Unfortunately, they slaughtered all the monks, and their golden Buddha remained a secret until that fateful date in 1957 when the abbot recognized the gleam beneath the surface and dared to chip away at the clay, to find the real gold within.
What a splendid discovery. Finding real gold, solid gold, within. In many ways, we are all like that Buddha, pure gold inside but covered with a hard outer shell that hides our “golden essence,” “our inner self,” “our real self.” Much like the abbot with the hammer and chisel, our challenge is to break through the surface to find our true essence, to find our pure gold, to win from within.
Today’s Honors Convocation confirms that you have been hard at work with your own hammers and chisels. You have chipped away across academic classes and across academic disciplines. I am more than gratified to see that excellence in writing is being recognized in several fields. I am heartened to see an emphasis on Greek academic excellence. I am encouraged and touched and saddened–all at the same time–by the growing number of memorial awards. At the risk of singling out any, lest they be given a prominence equally deserved by all the others, I cannot help but note the awards being given in memory of Dr. Ruth Shearer and Dr. Louise Callison, two of my own English professors.
I salute you. You have broken through your own hard outer shell. Your own true excellence shows. Your own true gold shines. I salute Alderson- Broaddus as well, for its role in guiding you throughout this time of personal discovery and growth. Today is a shared celebration. As an institution and as individuals, you should feel rightfully proud of your accomplishments.
As I stand here, though, I cannot help but ask myself, “Why aren’t all your classmates being honored?” Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To have so many students recognized today that Wilcox Chapel would be filled in a celebration of collective institutional excellence.
In case I have not made my point clearly enough already, let me hammer it home one more time: we are all solid gold. We are all capable of achieving excellence. Just as I have never met an ugly person–and I have not–so have I never had a student who is not gold, not capable of excellence. Never forget that point for one moment. If you do forget it, now or later on in your life, your competition will do you in. Ounce for ounce, your classmates in the world are just as much solid gold as you and just as capable of distinguishing themselves as you. They, too, can achieve excellence. And to varying degrees, they are. Like you, they have begun chipping away at their outer clay. But unlike you, they haven’t broken fully through the surface, yet, to see what’s inside. That’s what an undergraduate education is all about: taking the time to look within, to do self-exploration, to bring out self-awareness, and to find out who you are. At no time in your life, even when you pursue graduate studies–and I hope that many of you will–at no time in your life will you ever again have the luxury of focusing, twenty four hours a day, on winning from within–on finding yourself–and of being sheltered all the while from the cares of a 9 to 5 work-a-day world by an institution like Alderson-Broaddus, of being nurtured by such caring and dedicated and learned faculty as are assembled with us today. But I believe that you, unlike your classmates, have chipped away more broadly and more deeply. You have taken your pursuit of excellence to a deeper level. You have engaged yourselves in a more spiritual kind of search, a more personal search that has helped you become knowledge navigators in the academic fields you love best.
But, looking ahead, what do you do? It’s simple.
● It has but three words. Stick with it.
● It has but two words. Chip away.
● It has but one word. Persevere.
If you don’t stick with it, chip away, and persevere, your honor today will be short-lived. Here’s why. If you don’t continue to remain engaged in a spiritual search to find more and more of your real gold, more and more of your inner essence, if you don’t continue to develop your talents to the fullest, you will soon get side-tracked. You will soon start looking for self-love in all the wrong places, and you will ignore your own deep-rooted needs. You will get caught up in the busy-ness of life, of trying to demonstrate your self-worth through external sources, through achieving a material worth that will be obvious to others–that they will notice, that they will validate, and that they will appreciate. That approach may well bring you pleasure, accomplishments, a coveted job, big bucks, status, and even success. Just keep in mind, though, that the world is filled with people who have spent their entire lives validating themselves through external sources. All too often, their stories end on the sad note of personal regret and profound unhappiness.
Don’t wait for others to approve you. Respect who you are. Accept yourself. Approve yourself. Continue to tend to your soul, to develop the real you that lies beneath the surface, and to go for your own gold. Doing what you love should govern not just how you spend your time now, not just how you pursue college, but how you pursue your life.
Find what you love. Then do it with dedication, with determination, with daring, with ceaseless work, and with dogged perseverance. If you do, just as you have distinguished yourselves today, so too will you lead lives of distinction that will bring honor to you, to your families, and to Alderson-Broaddus.
Again, I salute all of you on your accomplishments, and, again, I thank you for including me in your celebration.
The Wired Researcher 