Looking Back on the Outer Edge of Forever

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

Marcel Proust (1871–1922). from his The Captive (1923), the fifth volume of his seven-part masterpiece In Search of Lost Time. Proust’s exploration of memory and perception reshaped modern literature.

Somewhere I saw it. Everywhere, maybe. Nowhere? Wherever—it grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go.

It was the gripping question:

“What would you tell your 18-year-old self?”

It lingered—since forever. Or yesterday? Either way, one morning not long ago, I tried to get rid of it by tossing it out to others—as if the orphaned question might leave me alone once it found a new home.

The replies were as varied as I expected, and as humorous and matter-of-fact, too:

“Buy stock in Apple and Amazon.”

“Be good at life; cultivate a well-rounded lifestyle.”

“Be patient; trust in God.”

“Serve God better.”

“Stay young; don’t age.”

“Be friends with your mom. Spend more time with family. Don’t let important things slide.”

“Don’t worry about impressing anyone other than yourself.”

Almost always, their offerings included a request to hear what I would have told my 18-year-old self. As a result, the question dug itself more deeply into my being, as I stalled by answering:

“I’m still thinking.”

It was true. But I knew I had to answer the question, too, not for them, but for me.

Several possibilities surfaced.

The first was rather light-hearted:

“You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just stay curious, kind, and honest. Don’t waste your energy chasing approval. Learn to cook, listen more than you talk, and remember: dogs and good people can tell when your heart’s true. Oh, and wear sunscreen.”

I dissed it immediately (though it carried some truths). Then I came up with:

“Don’t rush. The world will still be there when you’re ready to meet it. Pay attention to seemingingly insignificant things. They’re where meaning hides. Keep your humor close and your integrity closer. Fall in love, but don’t lose yourself in the process. And when life hands you a fork in the road, check which one smells like supper.”

I didn’t like that any better, though it, too, spoke truth. I was certain I could nail it with a third attempt:

“You think you know who you are right now, but you’re only meeting the opening act. Be kind. Be curious. And don’t confuse noise for meaning. The world rewards loudness, but grace whispers. Listen to that whisper. It’s you, becoming.”

Then six words sauntered past, not so much tinged with regret as with remembrance. Six words. Six.

“Be a citizen of the world.”

Those words had crossed my path before. In fact, I remember exactly when—not the actual date but instead the general timeframe and the location.

It would have been in the early 1980s, when I was working at the Library of Congress. I was standing in the Main Reading Room of the Jefferson Building, as captivated by its grandeur as I had been when I first started working there in 1969.

Above me, light spilled through the dome like revelation. Gold, marble, and fresco conspired to make the air itself feel sacred, as if thought had taken on architecture. Beyond those arches, knowledge waited in silence, breathing through pages and time.

Even now, I can close my eyes and see it: the way the dome seemed to rise into forever—an invitation, a reminder—that the world was larger than any one life, and I was already standing in the heart of it.

As an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints—the “bibliographic wonder of the world”—I knew every alcove, every corridor, every one of its 532 miles of bookshelves, holding more than 110 million items in nearly every language and format. I had walked those miles over and over again doing my editorial research. I had come to learn that knowledge knows no barrier. I had come to learn that it transcends time and place.

At the same time, I decided that I could transcend place, too. With my experience and credentials, I began to imagine working in the world’s great libraries—first the Library of Congress, then The British Library, then the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, then the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Roma.

I didn’t know where the journey would end, but it gave me a dream, a dream of being a citizen of the world of learning.

More than that, it was a dream untainted by pretense—never by the notion of being uppity. Instead, it was a simple dream. I figured that if I had made it from the coal camps of West Virginia to the hallowed halls of our nation’s library, I could pack up whatever it was that had brought me that far and go throughout the world, savoring knowledge and learning—and perhaps, over time, gaining a smidgen of wisdom.

But here’s the catch. If transcending geography is the measure of my dream’s fulfillment—the wanderlust, the scholar’s yearning for marble floors, old paper, and the hum of languages not my own—then, at first glance, I failed. I never made it to any of the world’s great libraries except the Library of Congress.

However, as I look back through my life-lens of 78 years come November 20, I realize that maybe I went beyond the geographic destinations that I set for myself.

I went from the mountains of West Virginia to the monuments of D.C., from there to the marshlands of South Carolina where I earned my Ph.D., from there back home to the monuments, and, from there, at last, to the Shenandoah Valley and college teaching that took me internationally via Zoom and tapped into Open Educational Resources that did away with the restrictive border of printed books.

In a sense, then, although I didn’t cross country borders, I crossed the borders of ideas, with my voice carrying me farther than my feet ever needed to.

I’ve managed to live generously, teach across generations, write with empathy, research with joy, garden with gratitude, cook with curiosity, and love with intentionality. In all of that, I have been that citizen of the world—not by passport stamps, but by curiosity. By compassion. By connection.

Maybe that’s the truth I’d offer my 18-year-old self:

“You don’t have to travel the world to belong to it.
You only have to live with your eyes open.”

Let Your Light Shine Bright

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.