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Remarks of Justine Reese,
granddaughter of John Gardner
A few
days ago I came home from work in very low spirits, discouraged
by work and personal frustrations, compounded by the oppressive
heat. And I put myself to the task of finding something to read
today. I went to the notebook where I tuck away things I want to
reread and remember, knowing that over the years I've tucked away
more than one text written by my grandfather.
What I came across amazed me, again. Every word I read lifted me
up, and felt like it was written just for me, to help me grapple
with my frustrating April day. Which of course it was not, and which
of course was exactly his gift. The passages were written for a
stadium filled with graduating students or a room full of executives,
and I have no doubt that everyone there felt exactly as I did, inspired,
resolved and changed.
I wish he was here with us today, but I'm glad we have his memory
and his words:
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This is from a speech my grandfather gave at the 2001 Stanford graduation:
If I may offer a simple maxim, "Be interested." Everyone
wants to be interesting, but the vitalizing thing is to be interested.
Keep your curiosity, your sense of wonder. Discover new things.
Care. Risk. Reach out.
Learn all your life. Learn from your failures, from your successes.
I know that some of you are a little frightened — more than
a little — of what's ahead. You know a lot — perhaps too
much — about the ways in which lives get messed up. Bright
illusions aren't your problem. But someone said "Life is an
error-making and error-correcting process." When you hit a
spell of trouble, ask yourself, "What is it trying to teach
me?" The lessons aren't always happy ones, but they keep coming.
We learn from our jobs, from our friends and families. We learn
by accepting the commitments of life, by playing the roles that
life hands us (not necessarily the roles we would have chosen).
We learn by taking risks, by suffering, by enjoying, by loving,
by bearing life's indignities with dignity.
The lessons of maturity aren't simple things such as acquiring information
and skills. You learn not to engage in self-destructive behavior,
not to burn up energy in anxiety. You learn to manage your tensions,
if you have them, which you do. You find that self-pity and resentment
are among the most toxic of drugs. You conclude that the world loves
talent but pays off on character.
You come to understand that most people are neither for you nor
against you, they are thinking about themselves. You discover that
no matter how hard you try to please, some people in this world
are not going to love you, a lesson that is at first troubling,
and then quite relaxing.
You learn to live along the way. You don't let the nagging pressures
of life smother moments of beauty that can never be recaptured.
Careless people treat unique moments as throwaways and live to regret
it.
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I would also like to read something that my grandmother, who I know
is very sad she couldn't make it here for this event, had tucked
away in her special notebook of things she likes to read and reread.
This is not something written by him, but rather something she felt
about him:
To Those I Love (Isla Paschal Richardson)
If I should ever leave you whom I love
To go along the Silent Way,
grieve not, Nor speak of me with tears,
but laugh and talk Of me as if I were beside you there.
( I'd come - I'd come, could I but find a way!
But would not tears and grief be barriers? )
And when you hear a song or see a bird I loved,
please do not let the thought of me Be sad
...For I am loving you just as I always have
...You were so good to me!
There are so many things I wanted still To do
- so many things to say to you...
Remember that I did not fear...
it was Just leaving you that was so hard to face...
We cannot see Beyond...But this I know:
I love you so
'twas heaven here with you!
Thank you.
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