Central Event
He is moved, this young ruler. In the year just past, he has grown tall and brave. He shows no hesitation as he approaches the rostrum. His voice will fail him, partly, exactly twice today. But he begins to speak.
Some of us have watched him and his people; some of us have watched over them from the quiet places, some of us have watched their enemies in the marketplace. Yet, not all of us have seen them grow into the people they are today – not all of us have seen so clearly.
And the young ruler evokes the vision of a year (386 days?) of joy and anguish, of the rites of passage and of pain; his words are direct and his meaning is plain, but together they call up memory and thought. You can almost see the ravens hovering near backstage. He speaks of things promised and undone, of people whose humour and patience carried him through dark times. He speaks with love for those who toiled with him, with respect for those who worked alongside.
He is no longer as young as we knew him. It is today, with the silences and the unspeaking gaze, with the face of the waters and the humid, gentle breeze, that we know things have changed. Today his people become men and women. Today, they have grown to a greater height, transcended what they were before. Some of them might have thought in terms of manhood and womanhood. Now, however, they know what it is all about.
For this is loss, great loss; not all of it is unwelcome, but all of it is memory, and summons thought, and will forever be a shining moment in their hearts. And it is gain, great gain, now that it is done. It is all done, it is almost finished, they will graduate in a scant few months' time. And his words say all of this, and more than he thinks he says. His words bind them all together and heal old wounds.
They will walk away, into the light of moon and sun, beneath the tall trees and across the broad lands. Some will become legends in their own time, some will become the memories of legends in another time. But for today, as they stand at the end of his speech, and divest themselves of the aura of power, they are young men and women at last.
Hours later, the rain has gathered. There is no one left here. The buildings are empty. And tomorrow will be another time.
Some of us have watched him and his people; some of us have watched over them from the quiet places, some of us have watched their enemies in the marketplace. Yet, not all of us have seen them grow into the people they are today – not all of us have seen so clearly.
And the young ruler evokes the vision of a year (386 days?) of joy and anguish, of the rites of passage and of pain; his words are direct and his meaning is plain, but together they call up memory and thought. You can almost see the ravens hovering near backstage. He speaks of things promised and undone, of people whose humour and patience carried him through dark times. He speaks with love for those who toiled with him, with respect for those who worked alongside.
He is no longer as young as we knew him. It is today, with the silences and the unspeaking gaze, with the face of the waters and the humid, gentle breeze, that we know things have changed. Today his people become men and women. Today, they have grown to a greater height, transcended what they were before. Some of them might have thought in terms of manhood and womanhood. Now, however, they know what it is all about.
For this is loss, great loss; not all of it is unwelcome, but all of it is memory, and summons thought, and will forever be a shining moment in their hearts. And it is gain, great gain, now that it is done. It is all done, it is almost finished, they will graduate in a scant few months' time. And his words say all of this, and more than he thinks he says. His words bind them all together and heal old wounds.
They will walk away, into the light of moon and sun, beneath the tall trees and across the broad lands. Some will become legends in their own time, some will become the memories of legends in another time. But for today, as they stand at the end of his speech, and divest themselves of the aura of power, they are young men and women at last.
Hours later, the rain has gathered. There is no one left here. The buildings are empty. And tomorrow will be another time.
Labels: Divestiture, Leadership, Myth
etched with acid at 6:13:00 pm
1 Comments:
hmm. this is the kind of entry i like to read and spend more time on. in reference to your previous post on user feedback. =)
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