Watching a television program on 'Genius' last night, one gifted young pianist, when asked if he thought he was a genius, responded, "Not yet, but I plan to be."
Well, I have to tell you, that about sums it up for me too. I'm working on it.
Granted, this is a rather arrogant, coming from a 52 year old, rather than an eight year old, but it describes perfectly the sense of becoming that is shared, not just between precocious youth and wistful middle-age, but by all thoughtful individuals. I should add the word hopeful as a descriptor as well, for in fact, it is a function of hope that I still believe I have the potential to be a genius.
Ok, maybe that's a little extreme, but the point here is that, battered and bruised by the events of the past year, I have somehow managed to hold onto some shed of hope. This I have for my life and dreams of being a thinker and a writer; of seeing Madelaine find her way through school and into the stream of life; of securing my love and relationship with Valery as we grow older together.
On a beautiful crisp fall day like today, it is not difficult to imagine and hope for the future, reminded, even as I am, that this crest is merely that, and the trough below is not simply an invention of my battered psyche. It is there, waiting, but I am here delicately balanced on the edge, enjoying the view for the moment, thank you very much.
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