I’m Gonna Be A Diamond Someday

My day began with a walk in the fog up the canyon to our neighbors’ house. I’ve always loved how fog forgives, much in the way of snow. A stillness descends upon the world when it comes, muffling sound, blurring edges, misting the landscape, mollifying the usual clamor of things. Spider webs are newly visible, outlined by diamond dewdrops, the white spikes of gone-to seed dandelion heads suddenly glint and sparkle, a raven pecks into the thick wet skin of a fallen orange until he catches sight of me and silently flies away, and the blank sky is a backdrop for it all.

I was purposeful in my walk today, heading for a quick kitchen meeting over coffee. I say this so often, I must really believe it: in a world of overwhelming grief and folly, the small local actions matter. We need to make a difference in whatever arena we have some influence, or at least we need to try, and maybe as a bonus, a ripple effect will kick in too, and who can say how far our good intentions might extend? So I was meeting with a neighbor to discuss a hopeful idea and how we might make it real.

I was listening, as I walked, to a soundtrack of random downloaded tunes, and the first one that came up was a honky tonk song by Billy Joe Shaver called “I’m Just An Old Chunk of Coal”. It sort of set the mood of my morning by reminding me of my dear friend Ted Martinez, who has been gone for fifteen years. Ted was the custodian and bus driver at the little rural school where I used to teach, but he was so much more than that. He translated at conferences with Spanish-speaking families, played bass guitar at assemblies, barbecued tri-tip on a grill he had welded himself, and was a trusted unofficial counselor and mentor to many students, and to me. It’s funny how vividly that song brought Ted back to me; music has that power. But it was a favorite of his, and I always thought of it as his theme song. He performed it often. (Yes, Ted came to our classrooms and assemblies toting his guitar and played music for us; many long-ago children, now grown up, will remember this.) “I’m just an old chunk of coal,” he would sing, “but I’m gonna be a diamond someday.”

But Ted was already a diamond; I know a gem when I see one.

As for me, I’m closer to coal than diamond, but I keep striving to be better. In fact, as regular readers of this blog know, I am a charter member of the Tribe of Those Who Try. When my heart sinks in disappointment about the stupidity and cruelty we witness or hear about daily, I must simultaneously remember to tug it up and dust it off and steadfastly resist despair. My remedy is to find a small, tangible thing I can do that lines up some points for the good side. There’s quite a range of possibilities. There’s always a friend in need of cheer, a crucial political cause that could use a donation, an article to write, an idea to develop. Lately, I even count things like cleaning out my closet or my overstuffed file drawers, chores that help restore order to my house and thus enhance my own effectiveness and clarity of thought. It’s a strategy of pushing back rather than succumbing. It helps me deal with my private sorrows, too, and mitigates my chronic survivor guilt. If I have been given the gift of many days, let me use them to honor my loved ones rather than waste them being sad.

Well, the truth is, I do waste a lot of days. But this foggy morning held promise. We wrote down ideas and outlined a plan and mutually reinforced a sense of sanity. Two little girls that I love wandered in and said hello, and the walk back home was entirely downhill, and I drank in the beauty all around me. I caught a glimpse of the resident pond turtle before he splashed into the water, and I noticed that the oaks I started from acorns are growing tall, and the sage plants by the house have flowers of brilliant blue.

I came upon a quote the other day from Love in The Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez that said, "Human beings are not born once and for all on the day that their mothers give birth to them, but... life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves" and for some reason, it really resonated with me.

And I remembered my elderly mother, years ago, in a happy moment, standing on a street corner eating an ice cream cone––and she was by no stretch a philosopher––proclaiming that every day could be her birthday. I didn’t know what she meant at the time.

But as I have observed the aging of my exterior and the multiple configurations of my interior and the daily revelations life kicks up, I can see it more clearly. There is a core identity, to be sure, but we invent and reinvent, adapting and creating and transmogrifying from carbon to pure light, and today may be my birthday once again.

I don’t know why I am so fortunate that I get to walk alongside a creek on a winding dirt road lined by oak trees and chaparral, wending my way to a friends’ house through a whisper of cloud, but I hereby acknowledge my gratitude, and I will try not to throw it all away. I genuinely care about what comes after I’m gone, but I’ll also savor what is given to me now, and maybe there is no contradiction in that.

Is it possible, as the song says, that I'm gonna grow and glow 'til I'm so blue-pure perfect? Not likely, but I’ll keep on trying.