I Was Born

I was born at 7:36 a.m. on the 12th day of July, in the year of Our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Sixty. According to my mother, I nearly died at birth. Due to some complications (which my mother would have to explain), I wasn't breathing. The nurses dipped me in warm water and then in cold in order to make me breathe, as the traditional fanny slap just wouldn't do the trick. But breathe I did, screaming out at the top of my lungs. I haven't shut up since.

I was born in the tiny community of Clayton, New Mexico, about a mile above sea level, and about ten miles from the borders of both the Oklahoma and Texas panhandles. I opened my eyes to the world of the Great Plains. Looking north across those plains, a person could see the Rabbit Ears. And that's about it.

I was born on July 12. Which means that I am honored to share my birthday with Julius Caesar, Henry David Thoreau, George Washington Carver, Buckminster Fuller, Pablo Neruda, and Van Cliburn.

I was born nine minutes before the same doctor delivered another baby boy in the same hospital. I have wondered, once or twice, who this other fellow is, nine minutes my junior, and how he's doing in life.

I was born for a reason. We all are. One of the great joys in life, I suspect, is in coming to a peace about who you are and why you are here. Me, I've gotten there yet, but I'm still on the prowl for the meaning of it all. And perhaps the search for meaning and joy is the point. In Surprised By Joy, C. S. Lewis writes about "..the quality... of an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction."

I was born, if for no other reason, for the journey.