Get A Life: A Commencement Address by Anna Quindlen

I have just returned from my youngest daughter's college commencement ceremony. As you can imagine, I am overflowing with pride and joy for Jen as she enters this new phase in her life.  I also recalled my own undergraduate commencement over three decades ago.  I have absolutely no recollection of who the speaker was or what wonderful words of wisdom he/she imparted to us freshly minted college grads embarking on our adult lives in 1979. Their words fell on deaf ears, I was too interested in hurrying on to the next step in my plan and moving into adulthood.  Perhaps that is why I enjoy reading exceptional commencement addresses now -- to read the words of inspiration through a different life lens; one with a bit less impatience and perhaps a bit more perspective on the joys and sorrows of being human.  I am not sure what my 21 year old self would have thought of Anna Quindlen's commencement address to Villanova graduates in 2000, but I hope she would have been even half as inspired as I am now.

"I have no specialized field of interest or expertise, which puts me at a disadvantage, talking to you today. I'm a novelist. My work is human nature. Real life is all I know. Don't ever confuse the two, your life and your work. The second is only part of the first.

Don't ever forget what a friend once wrote Senator Paul Tsongas when the senator decided not to run for reelection because he'd been diagnosed with cancer: "No man ever said on his deathbed I wish I had spent more time in the office." Don't ever forget the words my father sent me on a postcard last year: "If you win the rat race, you're still a rat." Or what John Lennon wrote before he was gunned down in the driveway of the Dakota: "Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans."

You walk out of here this afternoon with only one thing that no one else has. There will be hundreds of people out there with your same degree; there will be thousands of people doing what you want to do for a living. But you will be the only person alive who has sole custody of your life. Your particular life. Your entire life. Not just your life at a desk, or your life on a bus, or in a car, or at the computer. Not just the life of your minds, but the life of your heart. Not just your bank account, but your soul.

People don't talk about the soul very much anymore. It's so much easier to write a resume than to craft a spirit. But a resume is a cold comfort on a winter night, or when you're sad, or broke, or lonely, or when you've gotten back the test results and they're not so good.

Here is my resume: I am a good mother to three children. I have tried never to let my profession stand in the way of being a good parent. I no longer consider myself the center of the universe. I show up. I listen, I try to laugh. I am a good friend to my husband. I have tried to make marriage vows mean what they say. I show up. I listen. I try to laugh. I am a good friend to my friends, and they to me. Without them, there would be nothing to say to you today, because I would be a cardboard cutout. But call them on the phone, and I meet them for lunch. I show up. I listen. I try to laugh.

I would be rotten, or at best mediocre at my job, if those other things were not true. You cannot be really first rate at your work if your work is all you are.

So here is what I wanted to tell you today:

Get a life. A real life, not a manic pursuit of the next promotion, the bigger paycheck, the larger house. Do you think you'd care so very much about those things if you blew an aneurysm one afternoon, or found a lump in your breast? Get a life in which you notice the smell of salt water pushing itself on a breeze over Seaside Heights, a life in which you stop and watch how a red-tailed hawk circles over the water gap or the way a baby scowls with concentration when she tries to pick up a cheerio with her thumb and first finger.

Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love, and who love you. And remember that love is not leisure, it is work. Each time you look at your diploma, remember that you are still a student, still learning how to best treasure your connection to others. Pick up the phone. Send an e-mail. Write a letter. Kiss your Mom. Hug your Dad. Get a life in which you are generous.

Look around at the azaleas in the suburban neighborhood where you grew up; look at a full moon hanging silver in a black, black sky on a cold night.

And realize that life is the best thing ever, and that you have no business taking it for granted. Care so deeply about its goodness that you want to spread it around. Once in a while take money you would have spent on beers and give it to charity. Work in a soup kitchen. Be a big brother or sister.

All of you want to do well. But if you do not do good, too, then doing well will never be enough. It is so easy to waste our lives: our days, our hours, our minutes. It is so easy to take for granted the color of the azaleas, the sheen of the limestone on Fifth Avenue, the color of our kid's eyes, the way the melody in a symphony rises and falls and disappears and rises again. It is so easy to exist instead of live. I learned to live many years ago.

Something really, really bad happened to me, something that changed my life in ways that, if I had my druthers, it would never have been changed at all. And what I learned from it is what, today, seems to be the hardest lesson of all. I learned to love the journey, not the destination. I learned that it is not a dress rehearsal, and that today is the only guarantee you get. I learned to look at all the good in the world and to try to give some of it back because I believed in it completely and utterly. And I tried to do that, in part, by telling others what I had learned. By telling them this:

Consider the lilies of the field. Look at the fuzz on a baby's ear. Read in the backyard with the sun on your face. Learn to be happy. And think of life as a terminal illness because if you do you will live it with joy and passion, as it ought to be lived.

Well, you can learn all those things, out there, if you get a life, a full life, a professional life, yes, but another life, too, a life of love and laughs and a connection to other human beings. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Here you could learn in the classroom. There the classroom is everywhere. The exam comes at the very end. No man ever said on his deathbed I wish I had spent more time at the office. I found one of my best teachers on the boardwalk at Coney Island maybe 15 years ago. It was December, and I was doing a story about how the homeless survive in the winter months.

He and I sat on the edge of the wooden supports, dangling our feet over the side, and he told me about his schedule; panhandling the boulevard when the summer crowds were gone, sleeping in a church when the temperature went below freezing, hiding from the police amidst the Tilt a Whirl and the Cyclone and some of the other seasonal rides. But he told me that most of the time he stayed on the boardwalk, facing the water, just the way we were sitting now even when it got cold and he had to wear his newspapers after he read them.

And I asked him why. Why didn't he go to one of the shelters? Why didn't he check himself into the hospital for detox? And he just stared out at the ocean and said, "Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view."

And every day, in some little way, I try to do what he said. I try to look at the view. And that's the last thing I have to tell you today, words of wisdom from a man with not a dime in his pocket, no place to go, nowhere to be. Look at the view. You'll never be disappointed." ~ Anna Quindlen (2000 Villanova Commencement Address)

Commencement ~ The Journey Continues

Last Sunday marked a milestone in my life.  Thirty-two years after my first university commencement, I again crossed the stage; this time collecting a diploma in recognition of my graduate work at the Tufts University School of Medicine's Pain Research, Education and Policy Program. Perhaps because of the years that have passed since I set out in 1979, this commencement was very poignant for me, filling me with gratitude for all those who have guided,  mentored, and walked beside me over the years; my family, friends, patients, clients, students, teachers, colleagues, neighbors and fellow life travelers.

I was honored to be selected to deliver the commencement address for my program, and I share it here with you, my readers.  I welcome your thoughts and comments on your journey.

May 22, 2011

Tufts University School of Medicine 

Pain Research, Education & Policy Program Commencement Address

by Pamela Katz Ressler, M.S., R.N., HN-BC

To the faculty, administration, fellow graduates, and especially to my wonderful family; I am both incredibly honored and extremely humbled to stand before you today. It has been 32 years since I last wore a cap and gown and I am reminded today of that spring day so long ago in Ann Arbor, Michigan. In 1979, the adventure on which I was embarking appeared so clear and direct, much like Homer’s Odysseus as he set off from Troy enroute to Ithaca. But as with Odysseus, we often find our journeys far more complicated than we ever anticipated…meeting not only with trade winds and gentle seas but also with violent storms and towering waves that can batter us and throw us off course. And so it is for the patients we meet each day in healthcare. They, too, are voyagers on their own Homeric journeys, each filled with unique, authentic stories waiting to be told. It is up to us, in healthcare, to elicit, acknowledge, and honor these stories, to bear witness to their individual journeys and to help them navigate through difficult passages. When we first enter the world of healthcare our mission seems clear and direct – we want to quickly fix what we see as broken, to cure what we see as diseased. While this is a noble mindset, we often miss the opportunity to heal when we blindly set out in this direction. What I have learned is that often we cannot cure, no matter how desperately we try, but the potential for healing is always possible. This statement may seem incongruous to what we see as the measurement of medical success. But, as we look broadly at what healing really is… isn’t it all about reducing pain and suffering…about living and dying with dignity, grace, and a sense of purpose? We meet our patients at many points on their journeys and I see our work as assisting them in gathering the necessary tools of healing to find safe passage on their voyages.

During the course of my studies here at Tufts I have discovered many tools of healing. The Pain Research Education and Policy program was not on my navigational charts when I set off in 1979, but I am so grateful that I found my way here. Through my work with inspirational faculty mentors, especially Dr. Bradshaw, Dr. Glickman-Simon and Dr. Carr, as well as Dr. Gualtieri in the Health Communications program, I have explored pain not only as a physical manifestation of injury or disease, but also as a complex pattern of psychosocial and cultural components that contribute to a sense of suffering. Addressing the suffering has a direct impact on reducing the sensation of pain. The Pain Research, Education and Policy Program has allowed me to explore the intersection of modern medicine, technology, ancient healing practices of the body and mind and spirit, and the innate human desire to survive adversity. It has given me a voice in advocacy and scholarship by helping me to articulate the meaning of pain and suffering for individuals and society. For this I will always be grateful. Some of you may be familiar with the poem, Ithaca, by Constantine Covafy. It is a poem that has kept me company on my journey and I would like to offer it to you as a metaphor for this commencement, as each of us sets forth on new journeys and adventures:

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber, and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca on your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what these Ithacas mean.

And so, as you set sail from this commencement for your Ithaca…I wish you a long and prosperous journey, the privilege of listening to many stories, and the wisdom of healing….Thank you and Bon Voyage.

Season of Change

As the season of commencement, a time of change and new beginnings is upon us, this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke struck me as a quiet breath of wisdom into the stress of changes in our lives.

The Sonnets to Orpheus, Part Two, XII

Want the change. Be inspired by the flame
where everything shines as it disappears.
The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much
as the curve of the body as it turns away.

What locks itself in sameness has congealed.
Is it safer to be gray and numb?
What turns hard becomes rigid
and is easily shattered.

Pour yourself out like a fountain.
Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking
finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins.

Every happiness is the child of a separation
it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel,
dares you to become the wind.


~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~