Secret Knowledge for Graduates of 2020

Note: a video of this message can be watched below.

Dear Graduates,

I have a message for you.

It is not a short message, and it’s not for everyone. I want you to know that right away. This might require a bit of investment on your part — not of money, but of energy. If you don’t have the attention span for this right now, scroll on.

If you’re still here . . . congratulations! I think this message is important. I think it will help you to move forward in this time of significant discomfort, disappointment and uncertainty.

In this misty and murky time in history–with so many of your expectations dashed–I would like to share with you some secret knowledge.

Secret knowledge is always good. But especially now — when so much seems unknowable.

But before I share this with you, I want to acknowledge and honor the disappointment you are feeling right now. I see the sacrifices you are making in your life and the emptiness this time has left in you.

I am speaking now to my students this year — eighth-graders who must move now from middle to high school without your traditional eighth-grade recognition ceremony, where we would have celebrated your astounding growth. And then we would have shared cake and punch with your family in the library.

I see you.

We see you.

I am speaking now to the high school senior class of 2020 — my own nephew included (Hi Gus!!). You are perfectly justified in your anger and grief at having this milestone, this defining moment, stolen from you. To be robbed of that walk across the stage, that handshake, that hug, your name spoken into the microphone so that all may know: you rose to the challenge and prevailed. You made it. You did it.

I see you.

We see you.

To the college graduates–my own daughter included (Hi Emma!) — it wasn’t supposed to end this way. I’m sorry.

I see you.

We all see you.

These transitions–from middle to high school, from high school to young adulthood, from the structure of higher education to something closer to what we like to call, “The real world” — these thresholds are difficult enough to cross in a normal year. For this is the moment when we shapeshift, or shed our skins, or (if you prefer a more pleasing metaphor) we break from our cocoons and regard for the first time, our new and glorious wings.

And then we begin to imagine where those wings will take us.

In normal times, we take a moment to gather and see and imagine together. We recognize you as new and changed — no longer the child you once were.

You are being deprived of this moment.

And no. That is not fair. And it hurts. It is okay to hurt from this.

This pain, however, does not mean that you do not now have wings.

You may not see them yet.

But I see them.

We all see them.

And now I want to share with you some secret knowledge. Because secret knowledge is always good when you are about to take flight for the first time — but especially now with this thick fog of uncertainty and fear covering the land.

Sometimes you see the unknown coming a million miles away–like when you are in grade school and you attend your first graduation event. Sometimes the unknown sneaks up and catches you by surprise–as it has these last few months.

Surprises (both welcome and unpleasant) are not unusual in a lifetime.

But this one is different.

So, I want you to know that the rest of my message is also different. It’s not the typical message often given to graduates.

Because . . .

This is not a message of congratulation or celebration, grit or gratitude. And it certainly isn’t advice about the benefits of having a positive attitude.

Important things all, but easily found elsewhere — especially this time of year.

Instead, I want to give you a couple of stories.

For your collection.

Why?

Because the more stories you have the more ways you have of understanding things. Hard things. Good and honest things; and all the things that are . . . Just. Not. Fair.

Okay?

So here you go.

First the story of The Wise Farmer.

Once, a farmer and his son had a beloved horse who helped them earn a living. One day, the horse ran away.

When word of this spread, their friends all exclaimed, “Your horse ran away, what terrible luck!”

“Perhaps,” the farmer said.

A few days later, the horse returned, and with it, three wild horses it had befriended while it was away.

Their friends then said, “Your horse has returned, and brought several horses home with him. What great luck!”

“Perhaps,” the farmer said again.

Later that week, the farmer’s son was trying to tame one of the horses. It bucked ferociously and threw him to the ground, breaking his leg.

Their friends then cried, “Your son broke his leg, what terrible luck!”

“Perhaps,” the farmer said.

A few weeks later, a bloody war had broken out. The army marched through town, recruiting boys to fight for their country. They did not take the farmer’s son, because he had a broken leg.

Their friends all shouted, “Your boy is spared, what tremendous luck!”

“Perhaps,” the farmer said.

Now I ask you, was the farmer lucky? Could he have planned for any of these outcomes? Did the farmer know what lay ahead?

At the end of a lifetime, looking back, a person realizes that the story unfolds just as it should have. Way leads on to way.

Joseph Campbell said, “We must be willing let go of the life we’ve planned so that we can live the life that is waiting for us. Nothing is exciting if we know the outcome.”

We must be willing let go of the life we’ve planned so that we can live the life that is waiting for us.

The farmer seemed to know this. This is secret knowledge.

Here’s another story. Well, part of one anyway . . .

Once upon a time, King Arthur and his knights were seated at the round table, and the Holy Grail suddenly appeared before them, covered in a great, radiant cloth. And then, just as suddenly, it vanished.

Arthur’s nephew, Gawain, proposes a quest to find the Holy Grail unveiled.

But here is the interesting thing:

Since nobody knew where to start looking, they thought it would be a waste to bunch up in a group. Best to spread out, right? So (and this is the important part) each entered the Forest of Adventure at the point he himself had chosen, where it was darkest and there was no way or path.

No path.

You enter the forest at the darkest point, where there is no path. Because where there is a way or path, it is someone else’s path.

It may be scary and difficult, but you will never be happy following someone else’s path. You will never reach your true potential. Many people waste their lives following someone else’s path. You know these people. They are the most bitter or sad among us. They have followed someone else’s well-worn path to what they thought would be success. The way was easy. But they became lost anyway.

Stumbling along in the dark is hard. Uncertainty is hard. But there is no greater sign that you are on your own path. If you are in a dark part of the forest, it probably means that, as long as you don’t stop, you are on your way to your Grail. Find courage and keep moving.

This is secret knowledge.

Now, why am I telling you these stories?

I believe that stories are like tools and you should collect a variety of useful ones. Just like a smart carpenter or plumber adds tools to her toolbox as she increases her knowledge and skill in her craft, so you should add stories to help you do the same in your life. And variety is important. A smart woodworker does not cling to a hammer. . . because if your only tool is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.

You frame your life within the stories that you tell yourself. You see it through the lens of the stories you tell yourself. Do not cling to one story. You are bigger than that. You contain multitudes.

Now I have a confession that that most of you–who already know me– already know:

I am an English teacher.

So, when it comes to my beliefs about the power of stories, you might recognize my bias.

That’s important–recognizing someone’s bias.

But here’s a confession most people don’t know. While I’ve always loved a good story, until recently, I struggled to understand how powerful they really are.

Stories are the frames on which we hang our lives. They hold us up like skeletons. They shape us by orienting us in a time and space, by helping us to understand who we are and how we fit in — as individuals, yes, but also as members of a family, a community, a career, a nation.

We have stories about all of these things, about our pasts and our futures. About our relationships and what’s possible and what’s likely. About who we are and how we fit. . . into our place in this world.

So it is important to stock up on stories that help you get where you want to go.

Because either your stories serve you, or you are a servant in someone else’s story. If you do not forge your own path, you are on someone else’s path.

So collect stories about persistence and adversity and how to fight for the things you feel are important.

But also add to your toolbox stories of suffering, compassionate surrender, dignity, forgiveness and the healing powers of rest.

Collect stories of learning and growing and living yes . . .

But when the time comes. . . also collect stories of dignity and decline and death.

You will need these too. They will bring you comfort. Because nobody gets out of this life . . . alive.

Revisit and replenish the stories in your toolbox often. Update them as situations change. Keep them sharp.

If the toolbox metaphor gets old, experiment with new lures in your tackle box instead. Reinvent yourself from time to time. Set new goals. Use your stories to cast for different fish.

Appreciate the delicious complexity of your life. Don’t fear change. And don’t be afraid to try new things . . . even if you once thought these things ridiculous.

That is, don’t be afraid to entertain stories that seem strange to you. Stay within the frames you build for yourself. But stay open to new ideas. And every once in a while, boldly go where you have not gone before.

Be unpredictable. Liberate yourself with a complete 180.

Contradict yourself.

As Robert Frost wrote, way leads on to way, and the paths you choose will make all the difference.

Another poet, Walt Whitman, imagined life as a series of unfoldings when he wrote one of my favorite lines in a poem entitled, “Song of Myself.”

“Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

Ralph Waldo Emerson put it this way:

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. . . . Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. To be great is to be misunderstood.”

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

So . . .

A life well-lived is a continually shifting thing. Expect to change. New experiences should change you. It is okay to let go of old ideas.

This is also secret knowledge.

Now I have one more short poem to share with you. It’s called, “Come to the Edge,” by Christopher Logue. It begins . . .

Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It’s too high!
COME TO THE EDGE!
And they came,
and he pushed them,
And they flew.

So Graduates of 2020 . . .

In this time of extreme uncertainty and robbed of your traditional commencement–this essential rite of passage, this affirming declaration and recognition of who you have now become as you step gently from your cocoon and spread your delicate and beautiful wings for the first time . . .

I see you.

We all see you.

Gather your stories and come to the edge.