This Journal

8.23.99 - Monday

Today's assignment for the freshman classes was to read and respond to a poem called "Astonishment" by Wislawa Szymborska . It begins,

Why as one person, and only one?
Why this one, not another? And why here?

I'm touched by the notion that identity is a pretty fragile thing and a pretty tough thing. Why am I this person that some claim to know and love? Why am I understood and misunderstood by myself and others? The mystery lies in that specific interrogative, why.

If you want to know how or when or where "I" appeared, a little research will provide some reasonable and satisfactory answers. How? Well, the standard biology applies for starters, followed by forty-nine years of experience in and out of classrooms, between the covers of books and out in the world. 1950 seems to handle When, but you could also consider 1920, 1917, 1881 and a cartload of other dates which, if things had fallen out differently, would have altered or cancelled this present "me". Where must have always been Joliet, such as it is.

But, hell, if you want to know Why, you'll be asking for it: big trouble, big confusion, big mystery. The beautiful, enviable simplicity of The Baltimore Catechism starts with "1. Who made us? God made us." For many people that's enough. They buy it or they don't, and it's settled. "3. Why did God make us? God made us to show forth His goodness and to share with us His everlasting happiness in heaven." (The language here feels slightly off to me because I'm using the Official Revised Edition No. 2 of 1962. I studied and memorized an earlier edition in grade school.) This language was a beginning, not an end, for me. The poetry may have started here for me.

So if you want to know Why, and are unwilling to settle for simplicity, you will be launching out upon your own Magical Mystery Tour, your own spiritual quest (I think of Siddhartha and of Jesus in the desert), which could in time bring you back to a simple dark corner (as in Szymborska's poem) where you find a growling dog. Poetry has a way of opening rather than shutting Mystery's big window.

Why me here in this life? The rational, sensible answers are available, but they do not satisfy. The profound poetry of humanity and religion comes closest because it is never done. To take it literally is to miss the ride. On this tumble down through the well of language, I know I'll never hit bottom.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. Happy Birthday to me.