A Blessing Somehow

"Getting old is humbling, becoming ancient, even more so. To see your body fall into a state of dilapidation, and, even worse, to feel it. To lose control of it, and then find there is nothing to lose control of. It’s a heaping dose of humility. And, while the road to heaven may be paved with good deeds, and the road to hell may be paved with good intentions, only this I know for sure: the road to peace is paved with humility."

These are the words of Pierre Carriere, written in 1925 as he nears the end of his long and eventful life. The peace he has craved, he has come to understand, is at the end of a road paved with humility.

Here is something I have discovered about humility. Whenever I run out of it, a loving God kindly sends me more. All this without me ever having to ask for it. God bless me.

Let's face it. We all like the idea of humility. For others, that is. And we all like the look of humility. On someone else, of course. But the road to peace, as Pierre Carriere says, is paved with it.

I've been fortunate enough to have my novels, The Saints of Lost Things, The Memory of Time, and Living Among the Dead receive some praise, and what amazes me is that most of it has come from people to whom I'm not related.

But there have been other times, when there is no praise and not even any criticism, and the lonely world of creating for no one except myself settles in with the sound of crickets. I suppose it is for my betterment. As writer Flannery O'Connor said, "I can, with one eye squinted, take it all as a blessing.”

It's a wonderful, glowing thing to have someone express that something you've created has touched them. It makes it worthwhile. In between these times, I wait patiently "with one eye squinted," for the day when and if notoriety may occur. Either way, I'll be writing. As long as there's one other person who wants to read it, I'll write it.

Last weekend I was in Washington D. C., a place where there is a statue of some heroic figure in every public square. Some are well-known, some are obscure. It set me thinking. Maybe one day there'll be a statue of me with a plaque on the base: Feller here, it would say, wrote some mighty fine stories. Made us laugh and cry and think and feel, sometimes.

And maybe one day a field trip of students will come and see me, old stone me or old bronze me, up on my pedestal looking out somewhere. I wonder if my legs will get tired. Maybe they should sculpt me sitting or lying down. The teacher (or maybe the star pupil selected for such an honor) will read the inscription, Feller here...

And then maybe a pigeon will land on my head with urgent business and remind me of the virtue of humility, to the childish guffaws of the schoolchildren and the suppressed snickers of the teachers who try to quiet them.

And with one stone or bronze eye squinted, I will have to take it as a blessing, somehow.