Chosen for Greatness

 

Chosen for Greatness

March 14 2022

Some say your name is destiny.

Others, the order of birth

mother's milk

the alignment of stars

on the day you entered the world.

Or as basic as vertex

over feet first.

While the contrarians

dispute destiny;

your fate is in your hands, they say,

you have free will

and agency.

My impression

after so many years of life

is that the universe is random.

Things happen

beyond your control,

and the patterns we discern

are more wishful thinking

than rigorous proof.

Of course, it's hard

living with uncertainty,

notwithstanding

there are always death and taxes

and more bad news

than good.

And if, unlikely as it is

I was chosen for greatness

then I fear

I've been a disappointment;

the gods, the fates

or whatever unseen force

did not choose well.

Born in March,

head first and bottle fed.

A third son

with a forgettable name,

under the same stars

as everyone else.

But that day, the weather was bad,

a dark night, with heavy snow

blowing in off the lake.

Perhaps that set my course:

a late winter storm

with the maternity ward

on top of a steep slippery hill.

We almost didn't make it,

so could that explain

why I feel I'm struggling to catch up

still spinning my wheels

caught in a rut

on a snowed-in road?

A stormy temperament

battling headwinds all the way.

It's temptingly suggestive how the name sometimes fits the person: a dentist named Dr. Tooth, for example. Tempting, that is, to somehow think the name pointed him in that direction. But, of course, this is mere coincidence. Birth order is taken more seriously in the study of personality. But I'm not sure any correlations are rigorous or reproducible enough to make these observations of much use. And I have nothing but scorn for astrology and superstition. In fact, the whole idea of fate leaves me cold. Because we are insignificant, the universe indifferent: we aren't following any plan, there is no destiny.

I had no idea where this poem was going to go. The idea of a name as an instrument of destiny came to me, and – as usual – I just started noodling around. The story of my birth was repeated often and with great delight by my father, who was a fine story-teller (and didn't mind in the least repeating himself!) It wasn't on my mind when I started to write, but it conveniently provided a good ending for the poem. I wouldn't say the self-description is entirely accurate; maybe not even close. But as I've said before, please don't take everything I write as autobiography. I also get to make things up!