When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
-Maya Angelou
One of my life’s great pleasures is teaching high schoolers at Tomorrow’s Voices every Monday night. Much of the class is spent discussing the “national existential dissonance” as we confront the key paradoxes of our time, questioning why citizens of the richest, most consumptive nation in the history of the world see themselves as trapped by their lifestyles. I am awed by these sincere, brave and articulate conversations that lift the ceiling of possibility. Jane Taylor, a Roaring Fork senior, recently wrote:
Maya Angelou’s poem, “A Brave And Startling Truth,” describes a truth that humanity has yet to discover, but when we do, it will allow us to step into our full potential. Exactly what this truth is and the scope it encompasses is likely beyond my knowledge and experiences; however, to me, the truth Angelou alludes to is humanity’s inherent complexity: our shades of grey between our good and bad, our black and white. Individually and collectively, we can define who we are every moment … which is daunting but exciting. We can change.
This truth is startling because the majority of humanity feels confined to one side or the other; our psyche and survival instincts — dating back far before modern civilization — embrace the delineation of good or bad and categorize everything as such. However, these ancient instincts no longer serve us in our vastly technological, developed and connected society, so we must embark on a brave and startling rediscovery of our purpose and of the possibilities ahead of us.
Maya Angelou would be pleased that in an era with an intentional disregard for the truth and a resolute contempt for the possibility of our evolving humanity, she has inspired Taylor’s thinking.
Recently, I had the pleasure of talking with Katie Brimm, a former student. Katie is a Public Voices Fellow through the Yale Program on Climate Communications and Op-Ed Project, whose focus is cultivating resilient food systems and sustainable farmers. Seeing her reminded me of a text she wrote in May of 2006, a month before she graduated.
It seems we have found ourselves in a crisis. Our history will go down in the geologic record as the largest and fastest extinction ever. There is a tension so thick, and it is surprising that, rather than jolt our people into action, we’ve become less involved. Who knew that as progressive Americans we would stand at the edge of a cliff, teetering in the breeze and staring below at our broken world, we would be more aloof than ever, perhaps searching for the remote rather than a rope.
We are metaphorically at the edge of this cliff — yet we are so distracted, and we live our lives two inches from our end, separate from the colluvium of the less fortunate others below us. Our populace has evolved, or perhaps mutated, to stare at the ground in front of us and pay no heed to muffled screams on the other side. What happened to our passion? Our will to make a difference?
Our passion and purpose haven’t gone away, but they are lying dormant in too many of us. My students are passionate, and care deeply about the state of the world. Despite the manipulative and enervating rituals of money and politics, they are ready to offer their best selves and are easily moved by honest calls to action. They responded viscerally to the vivid and primal invitation in Brian Doyle’s “Leap,” written about 9/11.
A couple leaped from the south tower, hand in hand. They reached for each other and their hands met and they jumped.
…
I keep coming back to his hand and her hand nestled in each other with such extraordinary ordinary succinct ancient naked stunning perfect simple ferocious love.
Their hands reaching and joining are the most powerful prayer I can imagine, the most eloquent, the most graceful. It is everything that we are capable of against horror and loss and death. It is what makes me believe that we are not craven fools and charlatans to believe in God, to believe that human beings have greatness and holiness within them like seeds that open only under great fires, to believe that some unimaginable essence of who we are persists past the dissolution of what we were, to believe against such evil hourly evidence that love is why we are here.
When I ask my students whether these two were lovers or just strangers, they all simply say just strangers. My students know that we can, and must, choose to shape a more just and peaceful world founded on “extraordinary ordinary succinct ancient naked stunning perfect simple ferocious love.” They trust that in these dark times, the seeds of our humanity will open. When we come to it.