Thursday, December 6, 2012

...sometimes a detour is the path


...so I trust. Sort of.

Don't ask what the world needs.
Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it.
Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.
Howard Thurman


From the Wiki: "A curator (from Latin: curare meaning "take care") is a manager or overseer. Traditionally, a curator or keeper of a cultural heritage institution (e.g., gallery, museum, library or archive) is a content specialist responsible for an institution's collections and involved with the interpretation of heritage material. The object of a traditional curator's concern necessarily involves tangible objects of some sort, whether it be artwork, collectibles, historic items or scientific collections. More recently, new kinds of curators are emerging: curators of digital data objects and biocurators."

My goal was to become a curator. I had hoped to follow my B.F.A./Architectural Interiors from the University of Georgia with a masters in art history. Later, after gaining on-the-job experience, a doctorate. Yep, that was the plan. Didn't quite turn out as imagined.

Then I read that, in Scotland, the term "curator" means the guardian of a child. So it seems I've curated unawares for decades. As a parent, as a citizen, as a fellow human, I have the privilege and responsibility to maintain my cultural heritage. I archive memories through photographs, journals, conversations. And as all good curators, I strive for truth, not sensationalism or revisionist history. When I encounter other cultures, I try to build bridges, to honor differences. It would seem my deepest desires have guided me unawares in my "every-days". You can call me "curator".

Here's to the active waiting and listening of Advent. And gratitude.

"The Moments of My High Resolve" from For the Inward Journey by Howard Thurman

Keep fresh before me the moments of my high resolve.
Despite the dullness of the days that pass, if I search with due diligence,
I can always find a deposit left by some former radiance.
But I had forgotten.
At the time it was full-orbed, glorious, resplendent.
I was sure that I would never forget.
In the moment of its fullness,
I was sure it would illumine my path for all the rest of my journey.
I had forgotten how easy it is to forget.
There was not intent to betray what seemed so sure at the time.
My response was whole, clean, authentic.
But little by little, there crept into my life the dust and grit of the journey.
Details, lower-level demands, all kinds of cross currents...
nothing momentous, nothing overwhelming, nothing flagrant...
just wear and tear.
If there had been some direct challenge...a clear-cut issue...
I would have fought it to the end, and beyond.
In the quietness of this place, surrounded by the all-pervading Presence of God,
my heart whispers:
Keep fresh before me the moments of my High Resolve,
that in fair weather or in foul, in good times or in tempests,
in the days when darkness and the foe are nameless or familiar,
I may not forget that to which my life is committed.
Keep fresh before me the moments of my high resolve.


2 comments:

Jeannette said...

This is a good sized deep pooled pond of a post!
ironies can be sweet, can't they?
...be carefree and take care...
Jeannette

Celeste Bracewell said...

Can't recall who said this but I like it: "Irony is truth standing on its head to get our attention." Blessings this season, my friend.