Something Like Original Good

Stories, weaving through our lives, remind us, if we are paying attention, of the best and the worst we offer one another. One of my favorite stories is William Sydney Porter’s—we know him as O. Henry—Gift of the Magi. It is a tale of giving and the sacrifices we make for those about whom we care in some way, indeed those we love, perhaps, more than life itself, tinged by great irony and ultimately the possible beauty of human kind. Just what are we capable of? One of the female clergy at the church where I worship here in Santa Fe commented to me a year ago that she doesn’t believe in original sin, but rather, original good, a concept that does have its place in the thinking about our belief systems. “Of course,” quipped someone I met recently. She’s a woman. Or something like that, he said. And surely that makes sense, given the whole Garden of Eden tale that figures large in the creation myth and the so-called fall of man, tempted by woman. That’s for others to wrestle with. Why wouldn’t anyone like to think that at our moral center is the urge to do good—to love immeasurably, to love sacrificially, and of course, to behave ironically in the course of it all?

In O. Henry’s story, the setting is on the Eve of Christmas, some time early in the 20th century. The players are Della and Jim. Their means are modest. The assets of their household are precious few, among them her gorgeous long hair, rippling and shining like “brown waters,” more valuable than the jewels of the queen of Sheba. Jim’s gold pocket watch, handed down from father to son to son, surely the envy of King Solomon, had he been a part of this tale. So on the Eve of Christmas, Della sells her tresses to buy a platinum chain for Jim’s watch, and Jim sells his watch to buy a set of tortoise shell combs for Della’s hair. What a surprise for these two at the unveiling.

I think a lot about choices—good choices, poor choices, some in between, perhaps morally neutral. At times people are quick to dismiss the plight of others as being about choices, namely poor ones. I’ve heard this especially concerning those who live on the margins of society. How cavalier of anyone to suggest that an old man having to choose between medication and food, or an old woman, bereft of inhabitable home after a destructive hurricane, or a single mother seemingly and perpetually down on her luck because she has too many birds waiting to be fed in her nest, how cavalier to suggest that at the heart of these stories is the matter of choice, poor choices indeed. Ketchup labeled as a vegetable in school lunch programs by idiotic bureaucrats, welfare queens so designated by someone who has forgotten his own family’s struggle and pain during the great Depression, families living on the streets because they’re unable to pay for shelter. So many stories, many not nearly so desperate, at least for now. If we were to write it all down, turn it into pictures, learn it “by heart”, we couldn’t stay on our feet under the weight.

A friend is making great sacrifice for one of her grown children, advice and caution from other family members and friends, making their way, succeeding at some level, thanks be to God. There but for the grace of God go I. “I would steal for my children,” maybe, justifiably. Would I steal for those I love? Have I somehow stolen from others without even realizing it? Or maybe I just forgot.

I’ve made some poor choices on this relatively long 65-year journey. I’m making them now, in spite of experience cautioning otherwise, and I suppose that I will continue doing so as long as I have my wits about me. Ever the eager one, stepping out on limbs, damn the consequences, hungry to love and be loved, irony abounding in me and around me, made hesitant by the occasional outrage that life serves up, perhaps foolishly seizing the day, even when I’ve been advised, Harold, take it slow. A friend told me the other day that he doesn’t think he has ever sensed God’s presence in his life. I replied that most likely he has but didn’t realize it. Maybe he hasn’t been paying attention to the messengers. What do I know? I know myself for sometimes assigning meaning, perhaps misunderstanding the meaning, of what comes my way on this journey. I don’t believe in coincidence. We enter and exit one another’s lives for valuable and purposeful reasons. We love or don’t love, give or don’t give, sacrifice or not, and sometimes we mysteriously understand the choices we are making. Sometimes the choices just seem to be made for us. Would I shear my locks for my love? Or if all my worldly efforts have come to nought, would I take on monk's robes? My head is shaved, by some standards. I don't know what else to do, except keep trying.

Something Like Original Good—Santa Fe, New Mexico (October 18, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis