On the arrival of a photograph

Over a year ago, my father sent a cell phone picture of a photograph. The photo is of me in a boat. I’m wearing a flannel, looking out into a misty background that’s beyond an island in the middle ground. The dredging business they had in the 1980s left for some reason, a mound of red clay jutting out of the water that we’d have to ski around because the pond was too narrow to make a U-turn back to the beach. 

There were alligators on the other side. 

I remember first learning to water ski and surprising myself that I could actually do it when my cousin Titus yanked me up out of the water on his red and white Jet-Ski. Dad gave him some instructions in Pennsylvania Dutch that I eventually intuited when Titus made a turn to go around the backside of the island. 

Hell no. 

I aborted the skiing lesson immediately. I didn’t have to prove to anyone that I could ski if it meant going around the island. 

The picture came while I was working at Deluxe Bakery on Summit, a treasure of a bakery nestled among the more stately houses in Iowa City and close to the railroad tracks. Just north of the Lucas Farms borough. I knew where the photograph was taken, and it broke me. 

I’m small in the picture–maybe 9 or 10 years old–and it’s how I feel now. Small, unsure of the future. Still hopeful. 

Angrily optimistic.

I've been given much. My privilege silo is full to the brim with a great family, a great education. There’s also a healthy dose of “Don’t squander it!” floating about in my head, even while navigating a new career that I didn’t dream up and learning skills I didn’t have last year.  

Life isn’t panning out as expected, but learning to live meaningfully in the here and now is still possible. Viktor Frankl teaches that the key to deeper meaning is to be able to make meaning at every moment of the day, and today it means seeing this flanneled boy looking out into the misty future. I’ve wept for him. There's so much that's going to happen, mistakes he'll make, successes he'll enjoy, bitternesses he'll encounter. 

He’ll discover his only version of “Life is hard” that every human faces in their own way. To neglect that lesson is stupidity; to become fixated on it is hypochondria. 

He doesn’t have to solve all his problems right now. He only needs to work with his dad on finding a place to fish. Keeping quiet while in the boat (those aluminum hulls are quite the gong!).  Not falling out of the boat. Never failing to love. Feeling grateful to be on the water with his father. These are vital for his morning excursion.

Every day invites him to live heart-forward, mind present, and hands ready to do good.