Sunday, October 1, 2006

A letter.


I am dazzled by you, by your natural gifts, your steady growth, your unique perspectives and interpretations, your insights and uncommon wisdom. Now that you are a young man, it is a good time to take stock, to reflect on what you have made of what you have been made, to choose consciously where you will go next.

When you were ten you pointed out an interesting mystery about life: these past ten years went by quickly, like a flash, you said, but the next ten seem to stretch out before me endlessly. Now that you are thirteen, is it any different? Life does that, tricks you that way, and so it is important to be a thoughtful and caring choice-maker.

Choosing is the work of life. I’m certain the project you choose will be a large one, for it will have to contain your considerable intelligence, energy, and goodness over a long time. Only a big plan will have room for you in it.

Sometimes I like to think about questions in a weird way. Sometimes I ask myself, what are three things I must do before I die? And then I figure out how to do them. Or I ask, what epitaph would I want for myself? And so I ask you: What do you need to do before you die? What would you want people to say about your life? What would they say now, and what in a few years? What would your family say, your brothers, and what would your friends say, Elena and Thai, for example, Bear and BJ and Efrem, your teachers, say Steve or John or Lisa, or more distant acquaintances like Coretta, Julie, or Herb? Asking questions this way lends a certain urgency to the discussion. It’s easy to coast, to be conventionally decent by ignoring society, much harder to pay attention to life, to stay wide-awake, to choose to be moral and just and caring in an indifferent and sometimes hostile or evil world.

When we met thirteen years ago, it was love at first sight I thought I would teach you a lot, but right from the start you taught me. Another one of life’s paradoxes, I guess. You taught me about unqualified love. You taught me the art of holding on and letting go. You taught me courage and creativity. What will you teach me next?


-- To Teach, William Ayers



I read this letter in a book, and it took my breath away.

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