Rarely is a great man a good one, I said to her as we sat illuminated in the darkest, warmest night I'd yet experienced in Seattle. She was one of the many dear friends I had to say good bye to, and her advice, humor, and wisdom is always cherished.
We paused at that moment, her soaking in whatever perceived wisdom I had spoken, I wondering how anyone could be so blessed to have one's words so carefully listened to. I had, in that sentence, revealed all the worries and fears of my life, had thrown into that yellow, fluorescent light a weakness I keep wrapped beneath the gauze of my own resistance to arrogance (whatever little I have), and the robes of uncertainty I carry on my soul.
Her advice, as always, is to be honest with myself, to seek greatness with humility, but with fervor. She, like many others, begged me not to be too hard on myself, reassured me that I am a good person. And I, of course, told her I demand much more of myself.
I feel that I, and everyone I meet, has greatness buried in them, waiting to be unearthed. We are forever told to keep it entombed, to fit in, to be different enough to be individuals, but the same enough to get along. Our deviance, and thus our greatness, is calculated to be within the bounds of acceptable. I think the same is true of our goodness. We are meant to be great and we are meant to good. The goodness I share with world is not enough, not nearly enough. I and they deserve a better Christo, a man who will bring joy and hope to everyone he meets.
That, that! is ridiculous. It is far beyond my grasp, but it is an anvil which I may temper myself against. I want myself and others to be uplifted, to uplift others with everything that they are. Perhaps this is the meaning of greatness. It is certainly an image of goodness.
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