40 to 40: Origins

I turn 40 years old in 40 weeks.?I'm using this as an excuse to reflect on (what I hope is) the first half of my life, capturing 40 lessons learned as I count down to my birthday.

Today I'm thinking about origins.

Specifically, I am thinking about my origin. From where do I come? From whom do I come? How do I know my answers to these questions are true? Can the answers be true at one point in my life and then false later on?

I chose an unusual picture for this post, but it will make perfect sense if you allow me to explain. It's my sister, Marie Clare, hugging me in front of a mural she painted for a client (a posh hotel in Carmel). My wife and I drove down with the kids for a day trip to visit her family, and to celebrate the opening of her exhibition.

A diverse crowd gathered in her beautiful studio, a repurposed conference room with plenty of space for a dozen or more works in progress at a time. People ate, drank, and chatted in one of the late spring months of 2020 before the Delta variant crushed our hopes for an end to the pandemic.

This was a special day for me. Part of my own past came alive as I heard my sister speak about our great-grandfather, a famous woodblock print artist in the California Arts & Crafts tradition named William S. Rice. She (probably) wasn't trying to make this point, but I took away a profound truth. Our origins are made up of the ancestors we choose to keep alive.

I grew up seeing W.S. Rice's art all over our home, the homes of our aunts and uncles, and the home of our grandparents. I saw his prints sold at various galleries. I sat in on meetings when my grandmother interview various publishers before settling on the wonderful folks at Pomegranate Press. I receive and give his calendars (on sale now) each year in a weird family ritual that will hopefully never die out.

In my early years I learned to revere "Papa Rice" in the same way as the other members of the family. He was a fixed part of our heritage, a spot on a map that was already drawn in ink. An artistic giant, who in 1899 left behind his Pennsylvania home to make it in California.

That's not his story, at least to my sister. She is an artist, with the temperament and inclinations of an artist. She loved learning about Papa Rice, but didn't stop at the stage where he's larger than life. During this exhibition I heard her field questions from art historians and local collectors, where our great-grandfather naturally comes up as a topic of conversation. She was respectful, of course, and answered each question to the audience's satisfaction.

Side note: I don't understand any of the art world. My knuckles are just shy of dragging on the floor. I show up, smile, and try not to embarrass my sister. Or my wife.

So what was it that grabbed me? And how did her answer connect to my question about origins? She spoke about W.S. Rice more as a peer than anything else. When she spoke about him it seemed as if she knew him intimately, even though she was born 25 years after his death. She is connected to Papa Rice, and to his creative struggles. She's read and reread many of his personal journals, where she came to know much more about him than anyone who just studies his work. She saw herself in his frustrations and his triumphs.

William Seltzer Rice is my ancestor, but he is dead to me. I don't mean that to sound harsh, but it is true. The same is true of others in my family. I think about my great-grandfather sailing from Norway to South Dakota, or my great-grandmother driving her three young boys across the country in a Model T despite being recently widowed. I know these stories, yes, but these ancestors are also dead to me.

My origins don't come alive until my grandfathers serving in World War II. I was neither a pilot nor an engineer, but I can imagine how they felt as young men swallowed up into something much bigger than themselves. I know how a pawn feels, even one in uniform. The same thing is true for my own father serving in the Army during Vietnam.

Up to this point I've lived my life as if this approach made sense. Accept the broader sweep of history as a guide. Look for the most obvious points of connection and leave it there. And yet, what my sister is showing me is how much control we have over our origins. She chooses to find the similarities and embrace them. She brings her ancestors back to life in a way that makes her life that much more enriching, impactful, and vital.

I'm just starting to explore the implications of this. I wonder how it will affect the way I choose to describe the origins of my children. My daughter loves to sing, and to compose her own songs. Her mother and both her grandmothers love to sing, as do several of her aunts. Yet they sing for different reasons, from glorifying God to finding community. I hope she learns to tap into these various threads and the people behind them.

Reflecting on my own life, the questions of where and who I come from take on a different flavor. I'm not asking in a deterministic sense. I'm searching to find those threads in my own past that strengthen me as I struggle to life a good life.

Parts of my origin can bolster my faith, since I have been saddled with doubt my entire adult life. Parts of my origin can improve my judgment, since I tend to decide unilaterally when under stress. Parts of my origin can deepen my ability to love, since I often shrink back to protect myself.

The question of origin, then, depends less on the people in our past than the goals of our future. My ancestors provide me with more stories than I could ever hope to learn.

All I can do is pick hard things that are worth living for, and work with people I love and respect. Then I can listen carefully for my ancestors to bring them back to life.