Journey

10x12 oil

The last two emotions I want to feel when my turn comes to journey beyond this world and into the next, are wonder and love … together … and in their sweetest, purest, most peaceful and all-encompassing forms. Until then, the closest I have ever gotten to that ultra-human realm is when I have unconditionally given of myself to another human being. One unexpected moment stands among my most treasured memories.

Several years ago, I was invited to speak at an elementary School in Camas, Washington. The entire school was having a Calvin Coconut event after having read all of my Calvin books. They’d made posters, written stories of their own, and held Calvin Coconut contests, and the atmosphere upon my arrival was electric.

Before that day, however, I did something new, sparked by an experience I’d had meeting a homeless boy at a previous school event. This time, I contacted the school counselor beforehand and asked if she could arrange for me to meet a few kids living in poverty, or in a crummy home situation, or who were motherless, fatherless, homeless, abused, or forgotten. I wanted to know more about this population of kids living on the edge. I wanted to so something, anything. There were eight she had in mind.

To that point in my life I’d known nothing about this population of invisible kids. At all. And I’d met and spoken to tens of thousands. That fact was disturbing.

On this particular day, I presented to three or four hundred kids, and as always, it was wild, fidgety, fun and meaningful … but it got better. I’d brought along a box of extra books, remembering the fifth-grade homeless boy I’d met. My intention was to give the books away to the eight kids the school counselor had identified as needing a lift.

Careful not to single them out, my guide and I invented a secret “drawing” whereby the eight kids would “win” an autographed book from the author.

The first two were excited to have won, and I felt good giving them something, little as it was. In the third classroom, the winner was a fatherless girl named Alyssa. She wasn’t homeless, but nearly so.

My guide and I walked into a room buzzing with small groups of kids working on an assigned project. When they saw us, all activity ground to a halt. The teacher, who was deep into her own work at her desk, looked up.

“Sorry to interrupt,” my guide said. “We’re just here to present an award to one of your students. We held a secret drawing, and the winner gets a Calvin Coconut book autographed by the author.” We gave her the student’s name.

The teacher smiled. “Perfect,” she said, not at all bothered by our interruption. She called to the girl, the rest of the students wondering what was going on. “Alyssa, come up here. They had a secret drawing and you won a book!”

Way back in the far corner of the room a girl looked up. She’d been working alone, and seemed surprised to have had her name called. She hesitated, then pointed to herself.

“Yes, you, Alyssa,” the teacher said, waving her forward. “Come here.”

Haltingly, a very shy nine-year-old made her way to the teacher’s desk, all eyes following her.

I crouched down and looked into her eyes, and made a feeble attempt to say something meaningful. But all that came to me was,“You’ve won a book, Alyssa. Can I autograph it for you?”

She turned to her teacher, who nodded for her to go ahead and take the book.

“Yes,” Alyssa said, looking back at me.

I signed it and held it out for her. “I hope you like it.”

Alyssa looked at the book, still in my hands. Then again at me. Then back at the book. When she looked up a second time she reached in and hugged me.

As I hugged her back I could smell the poverty puff off her winter coat. She stayed there a moment, hugging me, then took the book and started back to her desk.

I stood, watching her walk away. When she was halfway to her desk, she stopped and turned back to look at me. Then she came back and hugged me again. I put a hand on her head and patted her back, because I could not speak, not even one word. An emotional lump the size of a grapefruit had swollen in my throat and I just knew if I didn’t get out of that classroom quick, I was going to lose it.

Alyssa, more than anyone in my entire life, had just taught me that what I do is not about me.

What I do … what we do … as writers, artists, teachers, and parents … matters. It really matters. We stand before every young person we meet as role models. It’s an enormous responsibility, not to mention opportunity. How much of our best selves are we showing them?

I made a choice that day to wake up. Being a rock star to a tribe of enthusiastic fans is fun and invigorating and often inspiring. But it doesn’t come close to what I learn from the invisible rock stars who teach me about what really matters. After years of wandering, I had been shown my deepest “why” — a mission, a purpose — by a shy, loving, and grateful nine-year-old girl.

When something touches me that deeply, I know it’s another piece of the reason I am here. This is important, that emotion says. Listen up. These are the lessons I love more than anything else on earth.

I want to be in that very same place of infinite wonder and love when I sail out of the harbor on my journey over the far horizon. It’s possible. I know it is … inexplicable miracles that we are.