Tag Archives: poetry

Potluck: The Final Course

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“To live in this world you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”

— Mary Oliver (1935–2019). Pulitzer Prize–winning poet known for her luminous reflections on nature, love, and loss. With clarity and grace, she reminded us to notice what’s beautiful, to cherish what’s mortal, and to let go when the time comes.

It arrived in a box the size of a dorm fridge—bulky, over-taped, and shipped all the way from upstate New York. Inside, cushioned among layers of newspaper and that crinkly brown packing paper that never quite dies, was one of the first gifts Allen–my late partner–ever gave me: a hefty, cream-colored chamber pot. Topped with a crocheted collar that looked like it belonged on a Shaker bonnet, and packed—ironically, perhaps even poetically—with potpourri.

The scent, when I opened the lid, was a clash of lavender and artificial pine, the kind that tries too hard to smell like memory. I laughed, of course. How could I not? A poo jar filled with petals. Humor as a cover. Humor as a calling card. I appreciated the gesture more than the object. Still do. But the truth is, I never liked the pot. Not even a little. It sat in a corner for a quarter century, quietly collecting cobwebs—and stories I never much wanted to dust off.

And now? I’m finally throwing it away. Guilt-free. It did its duty—delivered its laugh, carried its little memory, sparked a story. That’s enough. I’m keeping the crocheted collar as a relic, a threadbare nod to the better parts of our history. The rest can go.

When I made that decision, I actually chuckled. After all, while I like to think that I’ll be around forever, realistically I’m nearing 78. Why not get rid of the stuff now, while I can decide?

I’m not thinking about dying, but this sort of cleanse exists in lots of cultures.

In Sweden, it’s called döstädning—“death cleaning”—a gentle, forward-thinking ritual of clearing out what no longer serves, so your loved ones don’t have to.

In Japan, danshari encourages letting go of clutter—and the emotional baggage that clings to it—in pursuit of a simpler, freer life.

In the Jewish tradition, it’s the ethical will, where elders pass down their values and stories—sometimes alongside their belongings—so nothing meaningful is left unsaid.

Indigenous communities often give things away before the end, weaving stories into every shared object, turning parting into a generous act of connection.

In Tibetan Buddhism, simplicity before death is a form of spiritual preparation—phowa as a practice of unclinging, both to life and the sock drawer.

Even in Iceland, there’s an unspoken elegance to giving things with meaning—fewer objects, deeper stories.

And down here in the South? We just start handing out heirlooms with a twinkle in our eye:

“You’ve always liked this gravy boat, haven’t you?”

Trust me. I’m trying that. But guess what? I can’t give it away, try as I will—not even to dear friends and kinsmen.

Who knows. Maybe they’re Zoomers or Millennials who don’t want to clutter their lives like I’ve cluttered mine.

Turns out, a lot of folks under forty don’t want stuff at all. They want experiences—trips, concerts, quiet hikes, a really good latte in a beautiful cup that isn’t part of a 16-piece set. They lean minimalist and value sustainability. Their souvenirs are screenshots, playlists, and the occasional tattoo. Unless my keepsake comes with a story or a strong aesthetic, it’s probably headed for the thrift shop.

A lot of it has found its way there already. More will follow. The initial shock of letting go isn’t as painful as I expected, and I’m discovering that the pain lessens the more I give to Goodwill. I keep reminding myself that the stuff I’m giving away brought me joy for years and years. Now, it can bring others joy at a far lesser price than I paid.

Aside from recycling joy, I have other reasons for embracing what I think I’ll call giving away the Southern-Comfort way.

For starters, the executors of my trust will thank me in advance for doing now what I had no right to ever expect them to do later. Chances are that you’ll need to give that sentence another read or three. Once you do, move on to the next paragraph, where you’ll find a fact that will brighten up your next cocktail party.

Did you know that the average executor spends 100 to 200 hours just sorting through someone’s personal papers and possessions after they die? I’m not talking taxes or legal work—just the business of sifting through the drawers, the boxes, the files, the “I might need this someday” pile in the hall closet. If the estate is disorganized—or, let’s be honest, lovingly chaotic like mine—it can balloon to 300 hours or more. That’s weeks of someone’s life spent decoding your filing system, hunting down life insurance policies, wondering if a particular shoebox full of rubber bands means anything to anyone. And that’s assuming they live nearby. If they don’t? Add plane tickets, time off work, and emotional exhaustion to the tab.

Well. My executors know what I’m doing, and they’re messaging me their effusive thanks already, along with full encouragement to keep right on gifting in my Southern-Comfort way.

It gives me great pleasure, of course, to extend to them a cheerful “You’re welcome” now because by the time they’re empowered, my power will be limited to what I’ve written. The more I think about it, maybe that’s powerful enough.

But I have another reason, too. Doing what I’m doing lets me be in control. I can make sure that my “gravy boats” are repurposed in a way that lets the gravy keep right on flowing the way that I have in mind.

It makes perfectly good sense to me. Let me pause here to say one more thing. Aside from my Southern-Comfort way of gifting, I had the good sense ages ago to get other parts of my house in order: my will and trust.

And here’s another tidbit you can toss around with the olives and maraschino cherries at your next party.

Did you know that nearly 2 out of 3 Americans die without a will? That’s right—despite all the ads for online services and fill-in-the-blank templates, most folks still manage to ghost the Grim Reaper without so much as scribbling a “To whom it may concern.” And when that happens? The Judge Judy drama begins. We’re talking frozen accounts, snarled inheritances, court-appointed strangers making decisions, and families brawling over Grandma’s gravy boat like it’s the last crouton at Sunday brunch. Honestly, dying without a will is the messiest group project you’ll never get any extra credit for.

Guess what? That 2 out of 3 number I gave you includes the rich and famous, too. When I share some of the details with you, you’ll see for yourself that nothing says “let go of your crap now” like the chaos of dying with no will.

But I’m only going to clue you in on a few. After all, you don’t want to be the center of attention at every cocktail party you won’t get invited to if you keep on talking about things everyone needs to do as part of their own death cleanse ritual. Besides, I only had a little time between Goodwill trips to do my research on famous folks without wills.

But here’s three or five you can work to death.

Can you believe that Honest Abe Lincoln himself never got around to writing a will? Try smoking that in your pipe! The man who preserved the Union didn’t preserve a single line of legal instruction. His estate had to be handled by a probate court, and his son Robert had to manage the distribution. It wasn’t exactly messy, but it was embarrassingly ironic.

Or what about the Queen of Soul herself? Aretha Franklin. Well. Yes and no. Initially, she was thought to have no will—until not one but three handwritten wills were found in random places, including under a couch cushion. Say whaaat? Yep. Wedged in a spot where even a remote shouldn’t go. Her family ended up in a nasty legal fight to determine which scribbled version was valid. Talk about a long-winded story. Not here. Not now. Maybe another time.

And while we’re up in the clouds hitting these high notes, let’s not leave out Prince who–you guessed it–had no will. Nope. Zero. Nothing. But he had lots of estate, estimated at over $150 million. It triggered years of court battles among six siblings (some full, some half), and other people claiming to be heirs. His music rights and assets were tied up in legal red tape for six years.

Then, of course, we have the eccentric billionaire Howard Hughes who died with no will that anyone could prove—was real. But then again, was Hughes real? He must have been because what happened after his death was like a three-ring circus. Over 600 people filed claims as heirs, including strangers and distant cousins. One “will” was found in a Mormon church—allegedly leaving money to gas station attendants. Fake? Indeed!

Let me share one more example so that you’ll have five in your repertoire.

It’s my very own Dolly—Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, the writer I’ve studied and loved for decades. How on earth could the writer who was, in terms of dollars and cents, America’s most successful nineteenth-century businesswoman not have had the good sense to have her will in place when she died. It’s strange. She had told many people that she had left them money in it, and she referred to a will as late as August 10, 1929, in a letter to Grace Davis Vanamee (American Academy of Arts and Letters):

“I am returning the letters. It will give me much pleasure to have them placed in the museum.

“They naturally would not mean much to my legal heirs, and The Academy honors me by accepting them. I wish there were more.

“Anything else I have of more intrinsic value, is included in my will, for the Academy museum.” (Letter 506. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions by Brent L. Kendrick, 1985).

Yet when she died in 1930, no will was brought forward. According to one source, she tore it up the day before. At any rate, her two first cousins renounced their rights of administration and requested that Freeman’s attorney handle her estate. He did.

What gets me is this. Freeman wasn’t careless. She was thoughtful and deliberate. Still, her wishes went unrecorded, or at least unhonored. It stays with me, that quiet unraveling of a life so carefully lived.

Maybe that’s part of why I’ve started sorting now—because legacy deserves more than good intentions. I’m not just making lists. I’m making sure the meaning behind the things—and the things themselves—end up where I intend.

Freeman’s didn’t land with intent. Others were writing her final chapter, filled with unexpected characters. The next of kin list grew. Three other first cousins came forward, plus four more relatives with legal rights.

Suddenly, what might’ve been simple became crowded—with claims, questions, and confusion.

Freeman’s personal property was auctioned, with people flocking to the sale and leaving with prized treasures:

● four-poster bed belonging to her grandmother;

● all the books that she had penned and then inscribed, “To My Dear Husband”; and even

● the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction, awarded to her as its first recipient in 1925.

You may be wondering as I have often wondered. What happened to those and other treasures from her estate? Did they survive? Who has them today?

And into that mix of wonderings let me add that I would perhaps gladly sigh my last breath to touch the volume of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry that she held when she lay down on her bed on the evening of March 13 and died at 7:45pm of a heart attack.

What happened to it? Did it survive? Who owns it now?

So there. Now you have it. Five cocktail snippets. Rich and famous folks who bit the dust without a will and left a dusty trail behind.

As for me, I have my will in place. And just as I’m doing my best to give stuff away in my Southern-Comfort way, I’m doing the same with special collections I’ve spent decades curating—Shenandoah Valley pottery, Freeman books, and Freeman letters. My executors know where they belong, but I’m finding unexpected joy in trying to place things myself. Knowing they’re landing where they’re wanted? That will bring a kind of peace no estate plan ever could. Sweeter still, I’ll know they’ll be where I want them to be—and when it’s all said and done, I won’t be lying there wondering.

With any luck, my last course for this potluck called life might be an extra helping of joy for the journey.

Unmasking The Humourist. From Colonial Shadows into Modern Light

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“The pursuit of historical truth requires rigorous attention to evidence, but also imagination—an ability to see beyond the silences.”

—Eric Foner (b. 1943), Columbia University historian and Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Fiery Trial.

It began with a clue. A slip of language. A name tucked too neatly into silence.

For years, The Humourist was one of colonial America’s most compelling mysteries: a sharp, satirical voice that burst onto the front page of The South-Carolina Gazette in 1753 and 1754—then disappeared without a trace.

No signature. No farewell. Just a trail of dazzling essays and a question no one could quite answer: Who was he?

What followed, for me, was part scholarship, part sleuthing. I tracked language patterns, pored over wills, newspapers, shipping records, and marginalia. I followed leads from Charleston to Edinburgh and back again. And finally, I solved the puzzle, and the answer emerged:

Alexander Gordon—a Scottish-born antiquarian and early Egyptologist, who would eventually serve as Clerk of His Majesty’s Council in South Carolina. A man educated in Enlightenment thought, fluent in satire, and bold enough to take aim at power in a bustling port city where reputation was currency.

The mystery is solved. But Unmasking The Humourist doesn’t just name the man—it restores his voice.

This authoritative and definitive edition brings Gordon’s essays back into circulation for the first time in nearly 270 years, fully annotated and critically framed, with a scholarly introduction that explores Gordon’s identity, influences, and the forces that led to his disappearance from literary memory.

Why These Essays Matter

The Humourist columns are more than colonial curiosities. They are early American satire at its finest—witty, incisive, and rich with transatlantic influence. Gordon’s essays place Charleston on the literary map, not as a provincial outpost, but as a vibrant participant in the Enlightenment-era conversation about politics, identity, and the press.

This book marks a breakthrough in how we understand the American essay tradition. It challenges the idea that colonial literature was all sermons and pamphlets. Here, we meet a writer who was sharp, worldly, and unafraid to poke fun at hypocrisy—whose pen was as powerful as any pulpit or platform of his day.

A Milestone Moment

Today, I submitted the final corrections to the publisher, along with keywords, pricing, and metadata. The next step is the printed proof—then, in due time, the book itself.

It’s a strange and beautiful feeling. Emily Dickinson said it best:

“After great pain, a formal feeling comes.”

This project has spanned decades. It has taken me deep into archival records, across centuries of silence, and finally into the steady light of historical clarity.

And Now?

I’m proud to share the cover—front and back. Because The Humourist, like all great stories, deserves both.

Launch Details?

Not quite yet. But soon. The typeset is locked. The voice is ready.

This fall, a long-lost satirist steps out of the colonial shadows—and into the modern light.

When Lilacs Meet Algorithms: The Unlikely Union of Walt Whitman and Artificial Intelligence (AI)

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“The intersection of art and artificial intelligence is where imagination meets innovation, sparking a revolution in human potential.”

–Attributed to Ray Kurzweil (b. 1948; prominent American inventor, futurist, and author known for his groundbreaking work in artificial intelligence and technological forecasting.)

When I opened my kitchen door one morning last week, I knew that my lilacs had bloomed overnight. Their fragrance washed over my mountaintop world, signaling their presence long before I laid eyes on them. Amidst the whispers of spring’s arrival, my garden became a canvas painted in hues of lilac. Delicate clusters of lilac-colored blooms burst forth from slender branches, their petals unfurling like tiny, fragrant clouds against the blue sky. Each blossom carried a mesmerizing hue, ranging from soft lavender to rich violet, casting a gentle spell over the landscape. As the sunlight danced upon their petals, they seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly radiance, infusing my yard with tranquility and beauty. In their ephemeral splendor, my lilacs evoked a sense of wonder and awe, reminding me of the fleeting yet profound magic of nature’s creations.

At the same time, my lilacs transported me instantly to “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” Walt Whitman’s poignant elegiac response to the 1865 assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.

It’s a long poem–16 free-verse stanzas, totaling 206 lines–that I remember from high school. I never made any attempt to memorize the entire poem, but I vowed to carry the first stanza around with me in my head forever so that I could forever celebrate Lincoln and Whitman whenever life gave me lilacs:

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

I have been faithful to my vow down through the years. These days, here on my mountaintop, whenever my lilacs bloom, I linger–sometimes standing, sometimes pacing, sometimes kneeling–and I recite Whitman’s lines, inhaling deeply as I anchor myself to the deep roots of then, of now, and of eternity.

This past week, when the heady fragrance heralded my lilacs blooming, I felt an urgency to share what I experienced on Facebook. I posted several photos of my lilacs along with a brief sentence or two leading to the full text of “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Even as I uploaded the poem, I thought to myself:

“Way too long. Not many followers will read the poem.”

As soon as I hit POST, my doubt weighed even heavier. By now, I know. FB folks like photos. FB folks like short. FB folks like clever. Of course, we do. I can relate. We need to move on so that we can LIKE whatever it is that we choose to like (or not) next.

I sat there nearly wishing that I had simply provided a summary of the poem for those who didn’t have time to read it all. I could have done so with ready ease, especially since I often taught the poem in my college-level American Literature courses. Even though it’s a long poem, it’s not hard to grasp. Through vivid imagery and lyrical language, Whitman mourns Lincoln’s death and explores themes of grief, nature, and the passage of time. The lilacs in the poem symbolize mourning and renewal, while the thrush’s song serves as a solemn requiem. Whitman’s elegy reflects on the impact of Lincoln’s death on the nation and contemplates the enduring cycle of life and death. The poem is considered one of Whitman’s greatest works and a masterpiece of American literature, capturing the profound emotions surrounding a pivotal moment in our nation’s history.

Of course, I had the option to edit my FB post and include a summary comparable to the preceding paragraph as a way perhaps of teasing my FB followers to read the entire poem. As I considered that option, an unthinkable thought strolled across my mindscape.

“See what kind of summary ChatGPT can write. Better still, ask ChatGPT to write a sonnet that captures the essence of Whitman’s poem.”

I know. I know. How dare I write about a famous elegy and pull AI into the same discussion? I confess that even for an ardent AI lover like me, bringing the two together felt almost like a sacrilege. Yet, there I was, grappling with the intersection of technology and poetry. I felt uneasy, yet the idea was already planted in my brain. I had to do something with it, and ignoring the idea was not an option.

It seemed to me in that moment–and it seems to me now–that I could let AI fool around with “When Lilac’s Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” without in any way diminishing my reverence for the original poem, for Whitman, or for his morning of Lincoln’s death. It seemed to me that I had an obligation to explore the idea that had grabbed hold of me just as intensely as the heady fragrance of my lilacs had commanded my respectful attention.

It was from that perspective that I set out not only to see what AI might do but also to see what I might learn. I knew, at that point, that I didn’t want a summary of the poem. I wanted to see whether AI could write a sonnet that would capture the essence of the original poem.

I started with ChatGPT, asking them to rewrite Whitman’s poem as a sonnet, keeping its message and Whitman’s poetic style. Below is ChatGPT’s untitled sonnet:

When lilacs bloomed in dooryard’s sacred space,
And starry heavens wept with evening’s dew,
I mourned, embracing nature’s tender grace,
For Lincoln, lost, in death’s embrace so true.

The thrush’s song, a solemn requiem,
Through leafy boughs, did echo sorrow’s call.
As cedars wept, o’er fields and stream, with them,
I wandered, grief’s heavy cloak did befall.

Yet midst the mourning, there bloomed a light,
A radiant orb, in darkness’ deep domain.
A symbol of hope, amid the endless night,
In death’s embrace, new life shall yet attain.

Though Lilacs fade, and time’s cruel hand may sever,
In nature’s cycle, life renews forever.

As I reached the end of the sonnet, I wondered what ChatGPT would have to say about their own poetic flight:

“Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?”

While I aimed to capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem, it’s important to note that translating a work as rich and complex as “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” into a different poetic form inevitably entails some loss of nuance and depth. My sonnet attempts to convey Whitman’s themes of mourning, nature’s solace, and the cycle of life and death within the constraints of the sonnet form, but it necessarily condenses and simplifies the original work. Whitman’s poem is expansive and deeply personal, and my sonnet can only offer a glimpse of its profound beauty and significance.

So, there you have it. Well, actually, you don’t have it all, not yet. There’s another chatbot that Microsoft launched on February 7, 2023. Copilot is billed as “your everyday AI companion” that searches for specific information, generates text such as emails and summaries, and creates images based on text prompts.

If I had committed a sacrilege by asking ChatGPT to turn Whitman’s famous poem into a sonnet, then I had just as well enjoy my transgression more fully by putting Copilot through the same hoops. I had to do so. I had no other choice. Read Copilot’s sonnet below:

When Lilacs Bloomed

When lilacs graced the dooryard, skies aglow,
And stars, like tears, descended in the west,
I mourned, and shall, as seasons come and go,
With spring’s return, my heart forever pressed.

Perennial lilacs, fragrant and profound,
Their purple blooms a balm for grief and pain,
While stars, once bright, now hidden in night’s shroud,
Evoke memories of love that still remain.

O fallen star, your absence veils the land,
Yet lilacs whisper solace to my soul,
In heart-shaped leaves, a tender touch, a strand,
A sprig of hope, where grief and memories toll.

So let this sonnet bloom, a lilac’s grace,
A tribute to the lost, in time and space.

You may have guessed what’s coming next. Yep. I asked Copilot the same question that I asked ChatGPT: “Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?” Copilot responded as follows:

Indeed, my sonnet endeavors to echo the essence of Walt Whitman’s original poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Like Whitman, I pay homage to loss, memory, and the natural world. The lilacs, stars, and grief remain central, albeit in a condensed form. While my sonnet may not encompass every nuance, it seeks to honor the spirit of Whitman’s elegy.

Done? Not quite! We’ve got a new kid on the block, and they deserve a chance, too: Meta AI. They’ve been rolled out across various social media platforms: WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook, and Messenger. They can answer questions, create animations, and generate “high quality” images, according to Meta’s CEO, Mark Zuckerberg. Also, they’re built on the company’s latest large language model called Meta Llama 3.

Sounds impressive, no? Obviously, I had to see what kind of Whitmanesque sonnet they could create, using the same guidelines that I had been using. Here’s Meta AI’s poetic flight:

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d and fell,
A solemn requiem for the fallen chief,
The nation’s sorrow echoed, a mournful knell,
As death’s dark veil shrouded the presidential seat.

The fragrant blooms, like memories, did cling
To Lincoln’s legacy, a bittersweet refrain,
The thrush’s song, a dirge, did sorrowfully ring,
As nature mourned with us, in sympathetic pain.

Yet, in the midst of grief, a glimmer shone,
A hope that death may not forever reign,
For just as lilacs bloom again, so may be known
A resurrection, a new birth from pain.

And so we’ll hold the memory of him dear,
And cherish every bloom that dooryards bring near.

Obviously, too, I asked Meta AI the same question that I had asked their counterparts: “Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?” Meta AI responded:

My sonnet attempts to distill the essence of Whitman’s original poem, but it’s a challenging task to condense the complexity and nuance of Whitman’s poetry into a shorter form like a sonnet. Whitman’s poem is known for its free verse style, which allows for a more fluid and expansive exploration of themes and emotions.

My sonnet aims to capture the core themes of mourning, memory, and the cyclical nature of life and death, but it necessarily leaves out some of the richness and detail of the original poem. Whitman’s poem is also deeply rooted in the context of Lincoln’s assassination and the American Civil War, which adds a layer of historical and cultural significance that my sonnet can only allude to.

That being said, I tried to stay true to the spirit of Whitman’s poem by using language and imagery that evokes a sense of reverence, sorrow, and hope. I hope that my sonnet can serve as a tribute to Whitman’s original work and inspire readers to explore the beauty and power of his poetry.

So, there you have it. For now. Yes? Actually, no. We never really have it. Not ever. We’re constantly growing and learning and changing. Isn’t that what makes life worth living?

But, for now, let’s pretend that you really do have it all, everything that you need to transport yourself magically to somewhere that only you can decide and that only you will know whether and when you reach your destination.

● You’ve got Whitman’s original masterpiece, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” I wonder: will you read it, the entire original version? I wonder: will you let one line linger longer with you than all of the others? I wonder: what line? why?

● You’ve got three AI-generated sonnets, each one a 14-line version of Whitman’s original 206-line elegy. I wonder: will you revisit them and decide which one is best?

● You’ve got their own assessment of their sonnets. I wonder: which one do you think is most insightful?

● You’ve seen three AI generators in action, tackling the same task. I wonder: which one would you want as your “everyday AI companion”? ChatGPT? Copilot? Meta AI?

As for me, I’ve gone and fooled around for another week, and now, I’m leaning back on my pillow with a wider than wide smile on my face. This has been as much fun as being in class, giving my students exactly what I have given you, asking them to think about our conversation until we meet again.

Right now, though, I’m thinking about one thing, and I’m chuckling. When my lilacs bloomed last week, I never dreamt that their fragrance and their sight would take me on a journey into the intersection of Walt Whitman’s poetry and artificial intelligence. Yet it did, and I’m glad that the magic happened. It gave me a platform to champion once more the ever-growing role of AI in shaping our understanding of the world around us. AI is not a novelty or a passing trend. It is a powerful tool that is here to stay. We must embrace its capabilities, harness its potential, and use it to deepen our appreciation and gain new insights into even the most sacrosanct aspects of human experience, including poetry. By engaging with AI-generated content, we open ourselves to new perspectives and new opportunities for learning, challenging us to reevaluate our assumptions and to expand our horizons.

However, as we navigate this complex landscape, let’s remember that AI is not a replacement for human creativity. It is a complement to it, a tool that amplifies our capabilities and extends the boundaries of our imagination. By embracing AI as a partner in our inquiries, we can unlock new avenues of expression and deepen our appreciation for the beauty and complexity of the human experience. As we move forward, let us continue to embrace the possibilities of AI, recognizing its capacity to enrich our lives and enhance our understanding of the world we inhabit.

One more thing, Dear Reader. If you haven’t read Whitman’s “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” please read it in its entirety. If you have read it before, please read it once again. In either case, I hope that you read the poem, appropriately, amidst lilacs, and, as you read, I hope their heady fragrance washes over your world and refreshes your soul.

Let Your Light Shine Bright

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won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

–Lucille Clifton (1936-2010; “won’t you celebrate with me”; acclaimed poet and writer who overcame significant obstacles related to race, gender, and economic adversity; a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets; Poet Laureate for the State of Maryland; and Distinguished Professor of Humanities at St. Mary’s College of Maryland)

Sometimes late at night when my words grow tired of dancing and I grow tired of waiting for the dance to begin anew, I let music waltz me off to sleep. Recently, I drowsed off to Susan Boyle singing “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserable. Instantly, I remembered her appearance on Britain’s Got Talent (2009, Episode 1, April 11). I was mesmerized across time’s timeless expanse. I knew then, and I know now, exactly why. In part, it’s because of the poignant lyrics that evoke raw and vulnerable emotions:

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high and life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving

In part, it’s because of Boyle’s powerful, soulful, resonant, evocative, and captivating voice.

However, more than the voice and more than the lyrics is this. Susan Boyle overcame great odds and landed a triumphant second-place finish. Her performance left everyone reeling, including the judges:

Piers Morgan: Without a doubt, that was the biggest surprise that I have had in three years on this show. When you stood there with that cheeky grin and said, ‘I want to be like Elaine Paige,’ everyone was laughing at you. No one is laughing now. That was a stunning, an incredible performance. Amazing. I’m reeling from shock. I don’t know about you two.

Amanda Holden: I am so thrilled because I honestly think that everybody was against you. I honestly think that we were all being very cynical, and I think that’s the biggest wake-up call ever, and I just want to say that it was a complete privilege listening to that.

Simon Cowell: Susan, I knew the minute that you walked out onto that stage that we were going to hear something extraordinary, and I was right. […] Susan, you’re a little tiger, aren’t you?

Then, the moment of truth: the voting and the final word:

Cowell: Susan Boyle, you can go back to the village with your head held high. It’s three yesses.

Cowell’s comment–“Go back to the village with your head held high”--resonates with all of us. Something in us makes us root for the underdog–“everybody was laughing at you”–because we’re hoping that someone out there is rooting for us when others are laughing.

Susan Boyle’s performance that night catapulted her into fame and stardom and set me to thinking about other underdogs whom I admire because they overcame seemingly herculean obstacles to achieve success, sometimes breaking barriers, always reminding us that the human spirit can prevail against all odds.

Immediately, I started thinking about underdogs from my home state of West Virginia. In an instant, Pearl S. Buck, author of The Good Earth and the first American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, came to mind. With equal speed, I was ready to exclude her because I wasn’t certain that she had really faced obstacles on her path to fame. Then I remembered. Born in Hillsboro, the daughter of missionaries, she spent much of her early life in China. Without a doubt, she faced monumental challenges growing up as a minority in a different culture, and her early years were marked by poverty and social isolation.

Closer to where I grew up is Bill Withers, known for his acclaimed hits like “Lean on Me” and “Ain’t No Sunshine” and heralded as the Bruce Springsteen of the African-American community. Born in Slab Fork, a coal mining town, Withers grew up in a poor, working-class family and rose above those obstacles. His soulful and heartfelt songs have left a lasting impact on the music industry.

Still within spitting distance of where I grew up is Katherine Johnson from White Sulphur Springs. She was a pioneering mathematician and physicist known for her contributions to NASA’s early space programs. Her story gained widespread recognition with the release of the movie Hidden Figures, which highlighted the overlooked contributions of African-American women mathematicians to the space race.

And what about Homer Hickman, who grew up in the coal mining community of Coalwood? Inspired by the launch of the Soviet satellite Sputnik in 1957, he pursued a career in rocketry. Hickman’s story is depicted in the memoir Rocket Boys, later adapted into the film October Sky. He overcame the challenges of his mining town upbringing and became a NASA engineer.

Obviously, I can’t leave out Jeannette Walls who spent part of her life in Welch–just a stone’s throw from Coalwood–and went on to write The Glass Castle. Her memoir details her unconventional and challenging childhood, growing up in poverty with her eccentric and nomadic family. It has received widespread acclaim for its honest portrayal of resilience and determination in the face of adversity.

I thought, too, of Don Knotts, actor and comedian best known for his role as Barney Fife on The Andy Griffith Show. Born in Morgantown, he grew up in a family that struggled financially during the Great Depression. As a child, he was known for his lanky frame and high-strung personality, but he used humor as a way to cope with social awkwardness and to connect with others.

All of those West Virginians–and I could talk about others who resonate with me, including Chuck Yeager, Mary Lou Retton, Brad D. Smith, and John Nash–showcase the resilience and determination to be found time and time again as underdogs overcome obstacles–whatever they may be–and achieve success that inspires each of us and helps us believe:

“If they can do it, I can, too.”

By and large, my West Virginia anchors of hope overcame economic and cultural barriers. But here’s the beauty of it all. Anchors of hope can be found everywhere in the world, in every field of endeavor that we attempt, and in every obstacle that we face.

Among writers, I would note James Baldwin, an African American and openly gay writer, who faced the dual challenges of racial and sexual discrimination during a time of significant social upheaval. His eloquent and unapologetic writing style made him a prominent figure in the Civil Rights Movement and an influential voice for the LGBTQ+ community.

Another writer who transformed obstacles into insightful and controversial Broadway plays is Edward Albee, whose life was far from easy. Adopted into a wealthy family when he was just 18 days old, he never felt a sense of connection with his parents and instead felt alienated from them because of their high morality. Growing up gay in the 1930s and 1940s posed immense challenges for Albee–at home and beyond–yet he stood strong, celebrated his sexual orientation, celebrated the larger LBGT+ community of Greenwich Village and the world. At the time of his death in 2016, he was hailed as America’s greatest playwright.

I’m thinking about others who defied gender norms and achieved success, people like Christina Tosi founder and co-owner of Milk Bar, serving as its chef and chief executive officer. Food & Wine magazine included her in their 2014 list of “Most Innovative Women in Food and Drink.”

I’m thinking as well of Dr. Carla Hayden who made history by becoming the first woman and the first African American to serve as the Librarian of Congress. She overcame gender and racial barriers to become a trailblazer in the field of librarianship. Her leadership exemplifies resilience and the ability to break down barriers in traditionally male-dominated professions.

In the political realm, what about Shirley Chisholm (first African-American woman in Congress) or the late Sandra Day O’Connor (first female justice of the United States Supreme Court) or Barack Obama (first African American to be elected President of the United States)?

What about overcoming mental health challenges and financial hardship as Vincent Van Gogh did? He produced some of the most iconic and influential works in the history of art, demonstrating the transformative potential of creativity in the face of personal adversity.

Or can you imagine being born with no limbs? I’m thinking now of Nick Vujicic who overcame that immense physical challenge to become one of the most important motivational speakers today, delivering a message of resilience, gratitude, and the limitless potential of the human spirit.

These are just a few of my anchors of hope. I could go on and on with others, each representing a unique testament to the human spirit. Chuck Close (who triumphed over physical disabilities in art), and Misty Copeland (who shattered barriers in ballet) embody the resilience and determination that inspire me. Denzel Washington (rising from a challenging childhood to acclaim in acting) and Beverly Cleary (whose pioneering work defied gender norms in children’s literature) exemplify the power of perseverance. Dr. Ben Carson’s journey from poverty and academic struggles to a renowned neurosurgeon and Jay-Z’s success in overcoming the challenging environment of Brooklyn’s Marcy Projects showcase the transformative potential within adversity. Mark Zuckerberg (who faced skepticism and legal challenges in Facebook’s origins) and Elon Musk (who overcame personal and financial struggles in Tesla and SpaceX’s early days) reflect the tenacity of visionary entrepreneurs. Morgan Freeman (defying age norms with a career renaissance in his fifties) and Laura Ingalls Wilder (achieving fame at 65 with her Little House series) symbolize that hope and success know no age limits. Each is an additional anchor, proving that obstacles can be stepping stone’s to greatness.

I celebrate my anchors of hope all year long, but I do so even more during December. It’s a month chockfull of celebrations, starting with Hanukkah, moving on to St. Nicholas Day, Bodhi Day, Las Posadas, The Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Yule, Christmas, and ending with Kwanzaa. Each carries a unique message of hope, transcends boundaries, and unifies us in the spirit of optimism and shared celebration. What better time than now to celebrate the triumph of the human spirit against all odds and to gift ourselves with an extra measure of hope.

And you? Who are your anchors of hope? Reflect on them. Celebrate them. Hold them close to your heart. As you do, don’t forget the unsung heroes who can also be anchors of hope. A mother’s resilience, a father’s unwavering support, a brother’s camaraderie, a sister’s understanding, a teacher’s guidance, and a neighbor’s kindness—anchors, each and every one. With their unspoken sacrifices and steadfast presence, they embody extraordinary strength within ordinary moments, reminding us that greatness resides not only in fame but also in the uncharted territories of love, connection, and the indomitable spirit of the human heart.

As you reflect, remember this as well. Someone, somewhere, might be looking to you as their everyday hero who has achieved success against all odds. Someone, somewhere, might be looking to you as their anchor of hope.

Be the light that someone else needs to see. Shine bright. Shine bright.