The Blank Page
The Blank Page
In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril, Amlodopine, Omeprazole, Tamsulosin
On The Stereo: Turn The Page: Bob Seger
There are few inanimate objects more powerful than a blank sheet of paper. I realize that my computer screen is not actually a piece of paper, but what I see when I begin to write, is that blank page.
I reflect on what others have done, when they sat down and put pen to paper, and I am overwhelmed. What began as emptiness became substantive. An idea became reality. A simple thought became tangible. A picture is created by an assembly of words.
Give a child a blank piece of paper and some crayons, and they will draw their thoughts. They cannot read or write, but they will share ideas which are still forming in their young minds.
The simplicity of a note from a friend. A note that says "I was thinking about the time we were together." "I miss you." " I love you." Upon receipt and reading, someone's most personal thought or memory immediately exists in you.
"In the beginning......" And a story began. And that story maintains its life and lessons today. Because someone looked down at a blank piece of paper and began to write. Two thousand years ago.
"We The People... " And the greatest country on earth began its ascent, having written on a blank page.
If you have ever kept a journal, do not those daily events and thoughts, crafted years ago, regain life each time you pick it up and reminisce? Your words are as alive and real as they were the day you wrote them. Be thankful if you kept such a diary, as its very existence may someday give your children a magical glimpse into your heart. And an opportunity to better understand you, and the life you lived.
Anne Frank kept just such a diary. And the world will be forever grateful that she did. How else would we know the horrors of a war through the eyes of a young girl? Her home in Holland is visited by thousands each year, by people who want to give thanks and actually see the very place where she and her family hid during the Nazi occupation, and the secreted rooms where she wrote her story.
A blank page was given life by the great philosophers of Greece and the research of historians throughout the years, who believed that events and lives must be remembered. The teachings of Aristotle, Socrates and Plato in the 6th Century have relevance today. Their concern for a strong ethic and their search for truth continue to be admirable traits today. Thankfully, some of their beliefs were captured and kept. Their students kept notes, and by doing so, have given us a glimpse into the hearts and minds of the incredible philosophical minds of our earliest teachers.
I learned about the fire-bombing of Dresden through the writings of Kurt Vonnegut and the predictions of where the world was headed in Future Shock, by Alvin Toffler. I read The Three Musketeers in its original French language, and despite the arduous task of deciphering the story, I loved the romance and adventure. Graham Greene taught me, not only about the real world of spies, but infused his characters with a a humanity not often seen in adventure books.
Can you imagine, in the 16th century, in a thatched house in Stratford- upon -Avon, England, a young man, as his daily job, sat at a desk and wrote remarkable plays and poetry that have been translated into almost every language on earth? A quill pen, a candle for light, and a blank page. With simple tools, and an ingenious mind, he gave life to words and created masterpieces now read by millions.
I thought myself clever, as a very young boy, to take on the challenge of reading all of Shakespeare's plays. I never realized the enormity of the task. And I failed miserably at it. I completed twelve of his most popular and then discovered that I had not yet reached the half way mark. The man was a most prodigious writer. And I learned that I should set my bar lower, or learn to work more diligently and with more conviction. A fear of failure still owns a great tract of my psyche.
Almost every day of his life, The Bard began by staring at a blank page. He was a genius with a head chock full of stories and verse. He recreated ancient history in his own perspective, over and over. He wrote of Danes and Romans. Of mysticism and love. Of discord and comfort. He knew life, and he certainly gave us the most tragic scenes of death. And how fortunate are we to be able to reap the rewards of his fertile imagination!
In high school, an English teacher advised me, and the class, that we were, in fact, doing a disservice to the author, to read his works. They were meant to be plays, and only by seeing the stories acted out, could we fully appreciate his work. His art. He was right. Seeing Hamlet and reading the script are worlds apart. His extraordinary words and phrases are still heard almost daily. What power he owned.
Every book ever written. Every newspaper. Every story. Every script. Every newscast. Every tweet, e-mail and message, all began with the same blank page.
In my own history, with both parents gone, early, and nothing of consequence left for me to read about them, I am often saddened that I do not know the "why's" of so much of our journey. Nothing of my parents' romance, our trip to Canada and our early lives in isolation. Separated from grandparents, uncles and aunts, and cousins galore, for what reasons. All of the evidence is gone and irretrievable. Those pages will remain forever blank.
I read once, that when a person dies, we lose a library. Not just a story or even a book. We all have so much information encapsulated within us and we, each, are a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle. With each passing, we lose a part of an incredible story and leave incomplete, an exhaustive picture of all humankind.
So, when my Little Girl, Kristin, and some close friends, prodded me to tell my cancer story, I, at first, balked. It was akin to reading all those works of Shakespeare again. I recognized more work than I wanted to tackle. But I came to understand that I did have a story. I was, and am still, a stage 4 melanoma survivor. I am here by some amount of incredible luck and by the grace of God. My life is owed to my family and to my very close friends, who have made my fight achievable.
To those of you who played the role of St. George, and freely and willingly gave of your time and love to me and my family, through these many melanoma years, you are such heroes.
When I sit in front of my computer, each week, my page does not remain blank for very long. As I have said previously, this diary is my therapy. I want my family to have memories of who I was and who I am. How we spent our time together and how we loved each other. My daughters and their children will have tangible evidence of a past generation and how they came to be.
And I want my friends to know me better and trust the sincerity of my love for them. I would not have this joy if it were not for them.
Thank you.
Until next week....
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