I Was Born (Birthday Redux)

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 and a purpose. We all are. One of the great joys in life is in coming to a peace about who you are and why you are here. I'm still on the prowl for the meaning of it all. And perhaps the search for meaning and joy is a good chunk of 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.