The Greatest Gift

In many ways, my first semester in college was one of the greatest periods for my continuing development as an author. But it cannot totally replace the lost innocence of first discovering a penchant for the printed page. I was thinking back today of one of the first pieces I ever wrote, a short story entitled “Until the Future Comes to Us” I completed my senior year in high school. I would love to share it with you, but somehow it seems to have slipped out of my possession. Just as the adopted child often goes in search of his parents because he feels something is missing from his life, so too do I feel that a piece of me was lost when I realized with a certain sinking in my stomach that I no longer had a copy of this story anywhere. You do realize, do you not, that such a thing is not able to be replaced or reproduced, short of a near miracle that an early copy given to a friend or fan survives intact somehow? (If, in a million in one chance, you should happen to have a copy in your possession, would you be so kind as to contact me?)

Very well. You will have to forgive my nostalgia. I was all of seventeen or eighteen when I wrote that piece, and while it was not my first (miraculously I still have the two others major writings that precede it), it was undoubtedly my most complex and psychologically developed, a good portion of the plot within the plot being inspired from a dream that left a startling impression on me. I poured my heart and my soul into it, and my commitment to The Family, my first real friends in this world, was written in every word. I would dearly love to read it again, to see if there is anything left of the free-spirited, strangely wise and yet naïve teenager who wrote it. What happened to him all these years later? Did he lose his gift? Did he substitute things of lesser importance, making the gods of learning his idolatry? Did he forget how to live, so surrounded by books was he? Why does he so often try to hide behind his “learning”? What effect did losing the faith of his youth and the love of his life—losing his friends and his family to all of his many lies and all his many drugs—what effect did that have on that idealistic dreamer who thought the world would surely pause if only it learned the truth of what mattered most in life?

The story he wrote back then was prophetic no doubt, but a prophecy that is sealed, tucked away in the archives of his mind and yet just out of his grasp for wont of finer clarity. What would that story have to say? Would it condemn him? Would it show that somewhere deep inside of him has always been a spark of something finer and more pure? Would it reveal that he has always known deep inside what really matters in this life and show that the ideals of his youth and of a life that was free and innocent were what mattered most? Or would it simply be the words of just another average teenager sprinkled on the pages of yet another meaningless paper to be turned in to an English teacher for a grade: a thing he only thought a thing of substance and depth, deluded as he was?

Yes, well. I am in just such a mood tonight (which will be your today when you read these words). We all get in them sometimes. Tonight I could not help writing anything else except the truth. Every time I started to try to write for today’s send, it all sounded like so much rubbish. No, tonight I wanted to tap into the truth. Tonight I wanted to drop the façades and, for one glorious moment in time, simply be “really real.” Tonight, just for a moment, I dared to be an idealistic teenager who believed that it did not matter how eloquently you wrote, it did not matter what anyone thought, it did not matter how much education you had or how little; it simply mattered to be real, to feel, and to know what living life was really all about. It was not about money, it was not about fame, it was not about good looks or a fancy car. It was just about being who you were and living in the moment, savoring each precious minute as the greatest gift ever given to man: shedding tears and laughing, believing and doubting, resting and striving, hugging, sharing, and caring; it was all about living life to its fullest: really, truly living!

If living were not so important, why would Jesus say that greater love hath no man than this: that he lay down his life for a friend? If living is not so important, why do we concern ourselves with the securing of the living of it when the living of it here is done? Make no mistake: the secret to life is life. Love is great and love is good, but life makes love possible, and indeed, life is what love selflessly works to protect as a mother does her children. And drat it all, that is what the poets and the mystics have been trying to say all along; we have just had too much dust in our eyes to see, too much wax in our ears to hear. Farewell, my friends. I bid you all adieu and may living truly be yours to the fullest. Below you will find my composition final, which has much more to say about the living of life.

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The Stolen Gift:

How the loss of innocence (unless ye become as little children?) led to the loss of life:

Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?

And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:

But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.

And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:

For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.

And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons (Genesis 3:1–7).

Epilogue: In time they did indeed die. It would be many years later before a sufficient ransom or atonement was made to reverse what had been done, though the consequence of physical death and the loss of innocence remained. It is toward this end that the hope of all mankind is directed, a hope that Pandora, alas, cannot offer.

Eric Knickerbocker
December 17, 2000

Composition Final: Candid Thoughts and Observations

My writing skills have definitely improved over the course of this past semester, a number of interrelated elements corresponding to this upswing. My writing is only as good as the brain behind it. Much of my “enhanced”writing ability is in reality more a reflection of the more integrated view of the world I have with this past semester under my belt. My perspective of the world has broadened, and I have developed more confidence and certainty with my writing voice as a greater number of genres have blended together to form a more objective view of the world at large.

To be sure, at times my views have been challenged and my surety left hanging in the balance. Wisdom, however, has taught me that often the most painful times—those dark nights of the soul—are when the most constructive growth takes place; indeed, growth rarely occurs without a certain amount of pain. No one enjoys having their values shaken to the foundations, but when they remain standing one knows that one is made of “tough stuff.” The parts that fall apart or filter down from the rafters have to be swept up, adapted, or discarded.

It is only in the worst moments that we recognize our true selves. It is easy to be generous and gracious when the money is in the bank and the bills are paid: to think that we are such swell people for our giving spirit. It is a much truer test of the character to reach out when we feel like we have been broadsided by life, kicked in the teeth, left lying facedown in the dirt. Surrounded by the comforts of our modern age, we often fail to ask the right questions, the questions that truly matter. However, when we are lying in the road in a pool of our own blood, our lives hanging in the balance, all the silliness and phoniness of our lives drop off in an instant. In that instant, we come into a brand new appreciation for what truly matters and what does not in the brief lifetime in which we have to live.

For this reason, I rejoice in my times of testing for they show me the truth, and nothing whatsoever will happen without first confronting the truth in all of its barenaked shamefulness. And we will soon find that this wretched beast will be our dearest ally. This creature shows us the paradoxes of life: the folly of pleasure, the wisdom of sorrow, giving away to get, surrendering control to gain it, forsaking the search for happiness so that we may find it, dying so that we may live; ah yes, this hideous creature shows us what true beauty is really all about.

Not so long ago I fell in love with the truth. It has not always been fun: certainly has not always been romantic by far. We have had our share of ups and downs, and I have cried out in agony more times than I care to count: cried out with the frustration of knowing I had no choice but to continue on. Never would I find a better partner, and what is more, I could not leave. She would never desert me even if I tried to desert her. She would haunt me until I came back to her: having once tasted of her embrace, I could never go back to the way things were before. Though at times I find myself standing alone and at times I find myself shouldering burdens I am compelled to carry (for no one else will), I cannot, nor will I, turn away from her for long. Instead, I have come to love that ugly face, finding it softening and growing more beautiful as I continue to pursue it.

Whenever I write, I try to keep her face the focus of my thoughts. At times, I lose sight of her and my writing flounders because of my fallibility. Yet when I fix her face in my sights, I find that rather than people seeing her as being a creature of scorn, misfit and grotesque, instead they seem to see a beauty there, the beauty I have grown to love. Some will brush away a tear, or feel her fire stir the cold emptiness inside into a flaming fire that ignites a spark in their hearts they long since thought had died. They can feel her warmth envelop them, and almost without realizing it, they stand a little straighter, hold their gaze a little higher, and move with a freshly stirred courage to her irresistible rhythm.

There are a few, however, who bristle with hatred and animosity. They gaze into her face, but they fail to see the beauty that lies within. There is a reason for this. You see, the face of truth is a mirror that is reflecting their soul, and all they can see is the ugliness deep inside themselves they are unwilling to face. Instead, they blame the face in the mirror, not realizing it is their own self they are condemning. They fail to find comfort in the level gaze of truth that refuses to condescend to flattery, so long have they enveloped themselves in deception. The truth does not lie, nor does it flatter, nor put on airs, nor is it pretentious, and that is why some hate it so, while others like myself have come to love it so, even though it can be the most hideous face one will ever behold.

To be sure, there are other ways my writing has improved. My punctuation skills have definitely been strengthened in large part due to The College Writer’s Reference.¹ My choice of words and versatility has been enhanced by reading different genres in Reading, Thinking, Writing,² my other textbooks in other classes, and my extracurricular reading from the Internet and other sources. My views have been challenged by my reading, writing, class discussions, and peer interactions. In short, I am always learning, always growing, always improving—and always seeking the truth.

As to my aspirations when it comes to writing, the greatest thing I could hope for is that I make a positive difference in the lives of the people who read my words. I have always felt a strong desire for self-expression and view writing as a means to express my love of the things that I believe are important in life. I would love to pursue writing as a career, but making money is not my primary focus. I write because I love to write. I love to reach out and communicate no matter how that is accomplished. For that reason I am seriously contemplating a communications major. I am quite comfortable with words and find them fitting companions. I enjoy learning and have a hard time keeping what I discover to myself. I enjoy public speaking and feel a compulsion to speak up for what I believe. Indeed, it is very hard to speak or write either one without a feeling of genuine passion.

Of the two mediums (writing and speaking) I tend to prefer writing, as there is little risk in tasting the dirt under my toenails the way some speakers do. I can take as much time as I need to find the perfect words to set the perfect mood with perfect precision. I can write in the nude, after going too long without a shower, at six A.M. or midnight, or when I do not feel like facing the world. I can transfer a moment of inspiration and passion into a timeless “treasure” that inspires the same in readers long after my inspiration and passion lie silent: indeed, long after I lie silent. I can publish my writing on the Internet to be read the world over, free of charge, in hopes that someone’s life somewhere will be just a little bit better because of something I had to say.

And yet, there is something to be said about speaking as well, something that writing cannot offer. When I speak, my passion and my presentation unite in a moment of time that never again can be repeated in exactly the same way. There is a certain chemistry between myself and my audience that the stale environment of the written page could never match. I feel fueled with an energy that animates me and alters my mood for longer periods of time. This vivacity is somewhat disarming to others at times, as it brings me out of my shell unlike anything else: that is, anything else but putting a musical instrument into my hands. Place a guitar in my hand (or sit me in front of a keyboard), give me a receptive audience, and you will see light-years drop from my countenance. It enlivens me in a way that speaking never could.

However, there is one aspect of the medium of music that I find somewhat undesirable. Music communicates a depth of passion unlike any other medium I know. A skillful vocalist can transform this passion into power, wielding the message of the song with a deft precision that has the ability to penetrate the most hardened heart. However, I am a very self-conscious vocalist, and no matter how good of a lyricist I might happen to be, until I find my wings, this medium will never carry the impact of my writing or speaking. And yet, perhaps I underestimate it. I think of truth in terms of the expression of concepts or ideas, but I also speak the truth when I pluck the strings or frolic across the keys.

There is something about this medium that defies my explanation. Perhaps I fear it, or rather fear my own ability. I can play well to be sure, but good enough? Have not I perverted it somewhere by wrapping too much of my self-worth in its performance? Maybe that is why this particular medium leaves me feeling so sad and bittersweet. It is tied to so many pain-filled memories, so many stupid mistakes, so much arrogance and prideful glory. I fear it. It is power I do not understand, power I have not learned how to wield for a higher purpose. So why does it produce such youthful joy in its innocent moments? I suppose it is one of God’s creations I have defiled to such an extent, feared to such an extent, coveted to such an extent—you know, my own sudden change of ambivalent emotions startles me. What is about this medium that needs to be faced? Why does this subject often fill me with such melancholy? Indeed, why is this medium often so melancholy and somber for me? What does it tell me? I am trying to listen, but I cannot hear any words. It is saying something to me, I know: saying something deeper than words. But what?

I do not know, Professor Casey. I guess this has turned into one of those stream of consciousness papers. I do not understand what has come over me, and yet somehow I know I should turn this paper in just as is (well, maybe with a bit of editing to smooth it out a bit). I have enjoyed your class, and I hope you have enjoyed having me. It is likely I will see you in Composition II, as I am signed up for the 4:00 class. So until then, adios. Now if you will excuse me, I have some strange emotions left to untangle. It seems I caught such a glimpse of truth that I nearly lost my breath for a moment. My music would be the only way I could communicate what I feel. Written words, sadly, fail me. Some things, it seems, simply defy explanation.

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Footnotes:

¹ Fulwiler, Toby, and Alan R. Hayakawa. The College Writer’s Reference. 2nd ed. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1999.

² Reading, Thinking, Writing. New York: McGraw Hill, 2000. (This book was custom printed for OTC by Primus Custom Publishing http://www.mhhe.com/primis/online.)

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