From Beginning to End

by Robert Fulghum

  Crossing the threshold between being a self-concerned child and being an other-concerned adult is a death-and-rebirth transformation. A major rite of passage.

  When did you first realize you were an adult?

  When did you realize you had grown up?

  –

  One man’s answer.

  “I knew I had become an adult when I realized I had a conscience.”

  A teacher’s story. Daniel, now fifty-seven. In March of 1965, he got a phone call from a friend, asking him to come as soon as possible to Selma, Alabama.

  Daniel knows now how crucial to the success of the civil-rights movement the confrontation taking place in the little Alabama town was. But when he got the phone call to come and help swell the ranks of marchers, he did not want to go. He believed in civil rights in a vague way, and believed that sooner or later it would come, but this wasn’t his fight. He was a white Southerner living in the Far West, and he didn’t want to become an “outside agitator.”

  Also, his mother and father would never forgive him if he went to Selma.

  Besides that, he was young, working two jobs, with a young family, and he didn’t have the time or money to go. Even more, he was afraid—scared to death of getting beaten up or even killed. One man had just been beaten to death just for being there—a young white man like himself. No way was he going to Selma, Alabama. No reasonable man in his situation would go. He was no hero.

  But something in his soul—in his heart, in his mind—kept him awake all night. And the next morning he explained how he felt to his wife. He thought he should at least go and see firsthand, and make up his mind what to do when he got there.

  Respectably dressed in suit and tie, he drove in a rented car from the Birmingham airport to the edge of the town and walked to the area of the confrontation, there in the middle of a street.

  On one side were the representatives of law and order—police, state troopers, sheriffs, and government authorities in plainclothes, plus a huge crowd of white people. They were determined to block the protest march any way they could. Daniel knew people like these; he had grown up with them. He didn’t stand out among them—he was one of them.

  Opposite the police line was a street filled with singing, chanting Negroes—and mixed in among them he could see white people. He was surprised to notice that some were priests and nuns. He didn’t see many people like himself over there.

  On his side of the line, there were rage, weapons, authority, and the threat of violence—fueled by the fear of change. This side vented feelings with curses. On the other side, there was singing—and the presence of the unyielding force of self-determination. They sang “We Shall Overcome.”

  He remembered the final phrase from the “Pledge of Allegiance”—a pledge he had been taught on the first day of school: “… with liberty and justice for all.”

  Maybe it was his fight. Becoming just one more private soldier in this war wouldn’t make all that much difference to the civil-rights movement, but it would make a huge difference in who he was or was not going to be for the rest of his life. Adults did the hard stuff and didn’t turn away when things got scary. He knew that if he crossed this line, life would never be quite the same.

  He thought about his children and his children’s children.

  The marchers sang, “Which side are you on?”

  And he knew.

  Making a big circle through the adjacent residential area, he found a way to cross over the line and a place to stand. He began to sing.

  Rituals and rites of passage often take place where words cannot go—in a solitary, secret inner kingdom where just knowing is enough. We experience and understand changes we cannot articulate. And need not. Which is why we often say at crucial times in life, “I don’t know what to say,” or “I just can’t tell you how much I …” and “Words fail me.” Human language—our metaphors and analogies and rational expressions—often are a poor substitute for the most profound level of knowledge. The rituals of renewal and revival regularly take place in silence.

  Wordiness often ruins public rituals. The verbal waterfall drowns the private sounds in the minds of those in attendance. It is not true that if we get all the words just right, the occasion will be right. A successful rite of passage must leave room for the eloquence of silence.

  Silence is always part of great music.

  Silence is always part of great art.

  Silence is always part of a great life.

  –

  The Society of Friends—the Quakers—understand and practice this. They meet and celebrate in silence, knowing silence often speaks louder than words.

  A Quaker wedding is a case in point.

  As in all their habits of worship, Quakers’ weddings are simple affairs. In the most traditional Quaker services, there are no words, no music, no complicated ceremony or fuss-and-bother. The bride and groom gather with their families, friends, special guests, and the members of the religious community.

  It is a service of worship.

  In solemn silence, they sit together until a communal feeling of consensus and affirmation has been achieved. When the spirit moves them, they rise together, and the couple is married. All present sign the wedding certificate. A reception follows, and now there is time for talk.

  While this may seem an extremely austere way to wed, one is mindful of what’s at the heart of a wedding: the hearts of the couple involved. Sometimes words and ceremony and other people get in the way of what needs to be done.

  One does not have to be a Quaker to put this wisdom to good use.

  –

  I remember well a couple who came to me wanting to be married in the Quaker spirit. Both were attorneys working in the same office. The land mines and complications in their lives and the lives of their families rivaled anything I had ever encountered. Parental acts of incest, violent abuse, and alcoholic rage scarred the childhoods of both of them. Though both had overcome difficult personal problems, the bitterness and pain connected to family were unresolved. Which meant that great bitterness and pain could come to their wedding if their families were involved. It just could not be a family affair for them. As they poured out the grief, I could understand and agree with their decision. They had buried the past—and now needed a revival of hope for family life in the future.

  Sometimes things are just as bad as they seem.

  Why not just live together? No. They wanted a ceremony—something to confirm their relationship in the eyes of the world; they wanted to be husband and wife—to have a wedding. And they wanted witnesses. A civil service with a judge wouldn’t do. They’d already spent too much time in courts of law and were tired of words. They wanted the minimum ceremony—with the maximum meaning.

  After researching what was legally required and talking with me about what was spiritually necessary, they began to know what should happen. We conferred several times over several months. There was no hurry. I was moved by the depth of their caring for one another. If this process of negotiation is the real wedding, then I sensed a powerful and lasting relationship in the making.

  –

  Just after dawn on a warm, wet September Sunday morning, the bride and groom, their two closest friends, and I drove to a large woodland park. Shielded from the dripping sky by raincoats and umbrellas, we walked together through ranks of ancient fir trees on a path along the edge of a cliff overlooking Puget Sound. The couple had often walked there and often stopped at one particular clearing to look at the waves below and the mountains in the far distance.

  They asked the witnesses and me to stand close enough to see but far enough away so as not to impose a presence. Saying they would be back when they were married, they gave their raincoats and umbrella to their witnesses and walked off hand in hand in the rain, finally standing some distance away at their chosen place. The soft sound of the rain dripping down through the trees was the wedding march.

  We saw them stop and turn to look at one another withou
t touching. Then, standing side by side, they put their arms around each other’s waists and looked toward the sea and the mountains for a long time. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he leaned his head on hers.

  They turned and held each other in a lingering embrace. They kissed in a most tender way. Laughing, he picked her up in his arms and swung her around in a circle. Carefully, he returned her to her feet, and with arms around each other, they walked back to us, smiling in silence—a silence too fine to break until we got back to our cars, when she announced, “We’re married now.”

  Later, in a coffee shop over breakfast, we dried out and signed the legal papers. When he asked, “What do we owe you?” I had to say I was in their debt for the meaning their wedding had for me. In keeping my mouth shut, I had contributed to one of the finest weddings ever. It revived my own belief in what human beings can accomplish together.

  In the months leading up to their wedding day, they had said everything that needed to be said. When they crossed the threshold together into marriage, they needed no words. They knew why they were there, they knew what they had promised, they knew where they were going. Since God is everywhere, they felt married in the presence of God, as well. Despite saying nothing in the ceremony, they had still promised each other everything. Their covenant was made in that place where words cannot ever go. I’ve no doubt they did the right thing. It may have been the most eloquent ceremony I have attended.

  Interestingly enough, the bride and groom asked the witnesses and me not to tell anyone of their marriage, because they wanted to enjoy this occasion between the two of them for a while. I notice this often happens when a couple becomes pregnant—they keep the news to themselves for a time. Celebrations may be deep without being wide.

  The couple didn’t leave out the noisy part of the celebration—it just happened at another time. There is a time for silence and a time for Whoopee. In October, the couple threw a costume party—on Halloween, when demons are traditionally exorcised—an auspicious decision, given what I knew about the couple’s past.

  In the middle of the party, the couple announced their marriage. I was otherwise engaged that night and couldn’t go. I heard the groom was disguised as Lazarus the day after he came back to life, and the bride came as Sleeping Beauty, the day after she woke up. How appropriate—certainly their marriage had revived hopes of finally having a family life they could believe in.

  I see one or the other of them once in a while. They’ve been married almost seventeen years now. They’ve a couple of lively kids, a home, and all the rest that goes with it, I suppose. I suspect if I checked the site of their wedding on their anniversary, I’d find them there, rain or shine, reviving and reaffirming their vows in care-full silence.

  New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, Passover, Easter, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and on through Thanksgiving and Christmas. These annual occasions have been thoroughly and exhaustively examined in countless books and articles. These public holidays have become commercial events having little to do with the seasons of my private and secret life.

  For many of us, the new year—that season of new beginnings—does not begin on January 1. New Year’s Day is a name on a calendar marking the end of the craziness of Christmas. Most of us go to bed early on New Year’s Eve and stay in bed late the next morning because there really isn’t much we’re supposed to do. “Do Nothing Day” is a better name for it. And we can use a Do Nothing Day, that’s for sure. It’s a break, not a beginning.

  For some, December 21 marks the new year—the day on which the longest night is passed and the earth turns toward light again. For Jews, the New Year begins in the fall, at harvesttime, marking the completion of a cycle of birth, growth, and death.

  For all of us, during the years we were in school—and for all those involved in education now—the new year begins after Labor Day when classes resume. When we say, “This year I’m going to do better,” we mean when school starts.

  For a huge portion of the population in the world of manufacturing and wholesale distribution, the new year starts immediately after a major season is over. The developing, designing, and distribution of products has a huge lead time. As I write in early summer, for example, the production of Christmas decorations, advertising, and sales is in full swing. Poinsettias are being planted in greenhouses. The tsunami wave of selling has already been shaken into motion.

  The diversity of our culture and our economy and our ways of life means our seasonal pattern has changed from largely rural and agricultural to largely urban and technological.

  Yet for every one of us, there is still an annual cycle of personal seasons.

  A productive time and a fallow time.

  A time to generate new ideas and a time to make them work.

  A time to invest and a time to sell.

  A time to get organized and a time to let go.

  A time to get in shape and a time to be lazy.

  This paradoxical swing of the rhythmic pendulum of life is not to be ignored or disallowed. It is the swinging of the pendulum that drives the clock. My year begins in the fall, with the rise of the Harvest Moon. I give presents and celebrate people when I feel like it. April Fool’s Day is my personal holiday. And the first snow means winter. So it goes with me, never mind what’s happening in the stores.

  My daily life is likewise a matter of idiosyncratic style.

  I know I’m most creatively productive between six A.M. and noon, and for about fifty minutes at a time. Then I must stop and do something nonmental for a little while. I know if I skip breakfast, I will regret it in the afternoon, when I run out of energy. I know I work well under high pressure but know I need times of doing nothing. I know if I take breaks during the day, I will accomplish just as much as if I worked straight through. A nap is essential. I know if I don’t get enough sleep, the lamp of my life burns low. I know I feel compelled to rise with the first light of day, which means getting up very early in summer and late in winter. My life is more driven by daylight than by calendars. I do not think I am unique in this.

  Awareness of these inner rhythms and private seasons is not provided by business or culture, but only by being mindful of what makes a life go well and respecting that knowledge.

  I remember a “Peanuts” cartoon in which Charlie Brown is complaining to Linus about his lunch because it has the same thing in it every day. When Linus asks Charlie Brown who makes his lunch, Charlie Brown says, “I do.”

  When it comes to the rituals of my life, I make my own lunch.

  If the rituals do not work, they may be re-formed.

  Whatever and whenever the public celebrations may be, I live my life in tune with private and secret rhythms as personal as my pulse. The same is true for everyone I know. Our lives are endless ritual. The patterns that give meaningful shape to the day, the year, and the life are sacred to me, and to us all.

  We began with Alice’s story—with the rituals of the first hour of an ordinary day. It seems appropriate to complete a circle and tell you Sam’s story—about the rituals of day’s end. In the middle years of their lives, both Alice and Sam have come to understand how the patterns of these short hours illuminate the patterns of a week and a year and a lifetime. The wisdom of Alice and Sam is elemental: the Holy Sacraments are made out of the Daily Stuff.

  Sam lives in my neighborhood. Suffice it to say that he is in late middle age—he’s been around. What he looks like and what he does for a living are not important. It’s how he thinks and what he does to make living worthwhile that are impressive. As with Alice, you probably know someone like him. As with Alice, you may even be someone like him.

  Almost every evening I see him walking both his old dog and a recently acquired puppy. It’s a common scene—an ordinary event in most neighborhoods. You can almost set your clock by his reliable rhythm—coming by at ten and going back by at ten-thirty. Winter, summer, spring, and fall. Rain or snow, clouds or starshine, he walks the dogs.

  Nothin
g dramatic here—a regular guy and regular dogs taking a regular walk. Out walking myself, I followed him at a distance a couple of times. His dogs pause to do their business, but he also has reason to pause. The dogs look for a tree, and Sam looks for stars.

  I spoke to him about this.

  He said the dogs keep him doing something important for himself. The old dog finds his leash each evening and stands by the door, waiting. The old dog is driven by his lower intestine and bladder. The young dog frolics through the house, yapping and wriggling, driven by enthusiasm for any opportunity for action and adventure. But Sam is compelled by a need for what he tells his wife is “some fresh air.” Whatever he calls it, she understands where he is going and why. While he is out of the house, she will do the dishes. For the same reasons, he goes out with the dogs. It is a sacred habit—a reflective time alone.

  Sam says that on these walks he settles the affairs of the day and thinks about tomorrow. He calms down from the busyness of his life, notices the weather, the seasons, the trees, and the stars, and thinks about “all the big stuff.”

  He has watched the essential evening news of this turning and evolving world and is ready for bed and sleep. “Harmony” is a word that comes to mind.

  Sam knows the old dog will not live much longer, so the young dog is there to overlap the inevitable loss. He thinks the young dog will learn a lot from the older dog he can’t learn from people. And buying the young dog is an acknowledgment of life and death and a gesture toward the future—of Sam’s continuing to be around for a while himself.

  When my neighbor walks the dogs, he performs a ritual act of sacer simplicitas, to use the church Latin: “sacred simplicity.” Walking the dog is in truth a ritual of renewal and revival on an intimate scale—a small rebirth of well-being on a daily basis.

  Several years ago, Sam spent weeks at the bedside of a close friend who was dying of cancer. A man who had many regrets. He said if he had only known death was so near, he would not have hurried to meet it. When asked what he would have done differently, he thought for a long time and said something surprising: For one thing, he would have taken time to walk his dog.