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Becoming

Any writer is a word nerd, and I plead guilty. Finding the perfect word or making up a new one lifts my spirits in a way unlike anything else. Another category of word fun is dictionary digging—playing around with a common word that has many meanings, preferably contradictory. 

The other day I was reading an article explaining the world views of Plato and Aristotle. The author, one of my favourite columnists, Arthur Brooks, explained that the fundamental difference between the two philosophers was Plato’s view of reality as a fixed entity and Aristotle’s view that reality is characterized by change. Applying that to people, Brooks’ point was that to Plato, there is a fixed core that defines us, and to Aristotle every individual is perpetually in a state of becoming.  

My guess is that it’s a bit of both. There are ways in which I don’t think I have changed at all.  My desire for social justice, my optimism, my belief that most people are decent and trustworthy are things I have carried throughout my life. And yet, I never have the sense that I have finished evolving into the whole person I am meant to be.  The thing I like most about my life is that I am still growing. 

The Brooks article got me thinking about the word “becoming.” Maybe it sounds a little old-fashioned now, but I grew up hearing it used for appearances and actions. “That dress is very becoming,” someone might say, or the opposite, “that behaviour is not very becoming.” What in the world is an article of clothing or an infraction of manners in the process of becoming?  How can that word possibly apply?

Online Cambridge and Webster say “becoming” is an adjective that means attractive and suitable, and that is pretty much the end of the discussion. Nothing of philosophy at all in the word. I looked up the verb “become,” and I found a much longer and interesting history. Old English “becuman” meant “to come (to), approach, arrive, enter, meet with, fall in with; happen, befall; befit.”

Okay, I get the connection with befitting, but the rest of the meanings seem almost comical. By this standard, saying an outfit is becoming is rather like saying “that dress shows you are making progress towards a sense of style.”  Or perhaps, in this throwaway society one could argue that the only thing an article of clothing is becoming is landfill.  Then again, to say slurping soup is unbecoming does get at the idea that such behaviour is heading in the wrong direction.

Ah, vocabulary.  The stuff of endless weirdness. Time to give up on the dictionary and go back to Aristotle and Plato. Maybe one part of a satisfying life is to have a clear sense of what about ourselves we never want to change—our core identity, as shown in how we behave and what we believe. Maybe the other part of that satisfying life is feeling that we continue on an exciting trajectory of growth and change. Josh Groban  said it best in “Let Me Fall”

Someone I am is waiting for courage

The one I want, the one I will become will catch me

What a great image.  We jump and the person we become in jumping is the one who catches us. There’s a Laurel waiting for me whom I haven’t met yet.  It may not be an easy path to her. There are occasions to rise to, choices to make. The Platonic side keeps me grounded, but the Aristotelian side reminds me that only if I jump can I find my wings.

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The Grateful Sleep Deprived


Sometimes I get so busy that I forget I have a blog, and I’m surprised to see how long it has been since I posted. When the leaves are falling and the last posts are about springtime, that is quite a stark reminder of how time can pass.

I wrote what I am posting here over a week ago, when I had just arrived in Lisbon. A glitch had kept me from accessing my website until just now. I’m now at the end of the first leg of three, and have been to ports in Spain, France, and now Italy. Here’s what I wrote as I was just setting out:

I’m in Lisbon tonight, preparing to begin a month-long assignment with Silversea in the Mediterranean.  I travel so much that I’ve learned to let the bodily adjustments of crossing eight time zones in one day just be what they are. Now, in the predawn hours, I am predictably awake and have been for a while. I tell myself I’ll just take a nap this afternoon and then I’ll be fine.  Maybe that will be the case, and maybe it will take longer, but I don’t really care. 

As I lay awake, I thought of my son Ivan, now of blessed memory, and something he once said that has stuck with me for years and feels like a real gift. He said when he couldn’t sleep, he would remember all the times he had stood in an interminable line, or had to keep slogging dead tired through something, and all he wanted was to lie down. He would think about where he was at that moment, safe and comfortable between sheets, with a pillow under his head and a blanket keeping him warm , and being unable to sleep didn’t seem all that bad. 

On my flight over, I put in a bid to upgrade to business class and it was accepted. I don’t sleep well even with a lie-flat seat, but the coziness makes the long flight so much more pleasant. Except this time. The seats were bigger and more adjustable, but there was just a little extra space and no barrier for privacy between passengers.  When I laid the seat flat, it was about as comfortable as lying on a a mesh lounger by a pool—hard and with the hinge parts sticking into my back and ribs. I paid extra for this? Premium economy would have been 95% as good. Still, I channeled my son’s message and thought that at least I wasn’t upright in standard economy for ten hours. 

So here I am now, doing inventory as I wait for signs of light outside. I am done with the hard part, which is simply getting here.  My luggage arrived with me. Around noon today I will board a luxury ship and be taken care of for a month. I get to teach appreciative audiences what matters most about each of our parts—a little history, a little art, a little culture. I have a chance to dress up in ways that I never do in Victoria and that is very fun for me. I get to spend a day in all sorts of fun places—Barcelona, Palma, Monte Carlo, Kotor, Corfu, and on and on.  I won’t see a dirty dish in a sink or change a sheet for a month. I will make new friends among crew and guests. 

What’s a little missed sleep compared to all that?

If I were starting a band, maybe I’d call it The Grateful Sleep-Deprived. Doesn’t have the same panache, but I know the tune.