Everyone is someone before they become who they are becoming.
People don’t start out the way they end up nor do they end up the way they start out.
The way they start out however in a large part determines how they will end up.
I don’t know how to start this entry, so I’ll go with…
Once upon a time…
there lived a little boy. Prone to clumsiness and full of curiosity and compassion, he found the world to at once be a constant obstacle, fascinating to the touch and full of tragedy and humor.
Bartholomew, was bright, and might be considered a jack of all trades. However, he was more importantly a master of none. Second place (and sometimes 4th or 5th) seemed to always be calling his name. Mediocrity haunted him following him every day like a dutiful, unrelenting shadow. He fenced, he studied, he painted, he strummed, he baked, but if not always failing he always fell short. Sometimes quite literally. He was not a lofty fellow.
Bartholomew indeed failed at everything but it wasn’t for lack of trying. And along the way he made many new friends. That he had a real knack for.
I have come into the possession of a large cedar chest full of Bartholomew’s things. A collection of varied sorts, paintbrushes, musical instruments, sports equipment, etc. I like to sift through it time and again and remind myself of what kind of a boy turns into a man like Bartholomew.
I suppose it wasn’t just who he was that predestined him to become who he became, it must have been a result of circumstance and situation too. Bartholomew’s father passed away when he was only 19. Cutting his childhood short. And tainting the rest of his life with a dismal gloom.
With every passing milestone, graduation, love, marriage his happiness was harnessed with a regret that his father was not there to see it. The first five years were the hardest.
Bart lost himself in every way imaginable. He was sorry that he would never be the way he once was. Bitter that loss and grief had robbed him of even himself.
I am certain, had he not already been who he was before his father’s passing, he would not have become who he became.
What may be reverenced in Bartholomew was his response to sorrow and grief. He allowed it to fill him from his head to his toes. Despair woke him some nights and every morning, it shadowed him rain or shine.
(to be continued)