Tak' a Cup o' Kindness Yet

On this New Year's Eve, I wanted to thank you all for being so good to me over the past year--for reading my novel, Keowee Valley, and falling in love with its characters--especially Quinn and Jack--and the wild Carolina frontier, for taking the time to visit me here and to correspond with me about so many different topics, not the least of which has included the novel, history, politics, parenthood, football, pursuing a MFA in Writing, and how to make the world's best tomato pie.

Your interest and friendship has been kismet and blessing both, and I hope you'll hang in there with me over the next year as I attempt to conquer the world. Kidding. I mean, as I attempt to parent two wee ones, finish my graduate program, and write the next adventure in Quinn's story.

Today, and as an American Scot, I've got to pan the stage light over to the great Scottish bard Robert (or, as the Scots called him, Rabbie) Burns, who's responsible for the timeless and perfect poem "Old Lang Syne." This poem, of course, has become the anthem of New Year's Eve in American and across the world.

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And auld lang syne?

Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

And surely you'll be your pint-stowp
And surely I'll be mine
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

Chorus

We twa hae ran about the braes
And pu'd the gowans fine
But we've wander'd monie a weary fit
Sin' auld lang syne.

Chorus

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn
Frae morning sun til dine,
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

Chorus

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine,
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught
For auld lang syne!

Chorus

BBC News Scotland

Burns was a hugely popular poet in his day (the late 1700s); he was also a lyricist and an exciseman, which meant he was in charge of checking on and reporting import items to Scottish ports. And wasn't he a good-looking fellow, too? Like so many of his fellow 18th century poets, he died young. He was 37. But Burns is credited with sharing the Scottish dialect and language with the world. "Old Lang Syne" is said to be a Scottish folk song that he adapted.
 
 BBC News Scotland posted a fantastic article yesterday, about Burns, the song, and how it all came to be.

Burns once wrote:

"My way is: I consider the poetic sentiment, correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, then chuse my theme, begin one stanza, when that is composed—which is generally the most difficult part of the business—I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in nature around me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy and workings of my bosom, humming every now and then the air with the verses I have framed. when I feel my Muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper, swinging, at intervals, on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my, pen goes."

And a better way of describing a writer's creative process, I've not seen.

I hope that tonight you're all able to give thanks for the "good old days," to meet with dear friends, and to take a cup of kindness for the coming year!

Arguments Among Friends

 "The truth springs from arguments among friends."

~ David Hume, Scottish philosopher

I love arguing, especially with my friends. I get a little thrill, a ping beneath the skin, when an argument turns passionate and voices rise. And when the argument rides that wicked edge between debate and fight, I often feel myself coming alive in the blood.

This can be a problem.

Especially when you're arguing with someone who doesn't particularly like the practice. Especially when you're arguing with someone who considers all arguing to be distressing, distateful, or simply fighting. And, I admit, when an argument does cross that line from debate to full-on fight, I've got a fuse that can be extinguished so quickly it leaves my loved ones breathless. I can be ready to move on, and they're still mad.

Like I said, a problem.

But I don't think Hume meant "fights" when he wrote "arguments." I think he meant debate--good, old fashioned, disagreeing debate. We all remember those, right? The kinds of conversations where the speakers kept their minds open, and those minds could be changed?

The American conscious (and conscience) sprouted, grew and flourished because of debate: because smart people argued with each other--smart people who respected each other, even when they disagreed. Smart people who found the debate a useful, changing, and illuminating tool. Who were willing to see past the parameters of their own backgrounds and beliefs. And, like Hume said, the truth sprung. (Can I get an "amen"?)

Today, debate sometimes seems useless. Listeners often seem unwilling to crack the windows of their deeply-held beliefs, even to allow in the fresh air. And instead, in all situations and on all sides, the air grows stagnant, and eventually will stink.

I love my friends. I've got friends with whom I agree on just about everything: politics, literature, religion, football. I've also got friends with whom I disagree, on all the above. Most of my friends are willing to enter the argument: to talk, exchange ideas, to laugh with and at each other when it all grows ridiculous. I'm lucky for this. And I have friends with whom I've learned simply not to broach certain topics for the sake of the friendship. And this, too, is okay--though I long to enter the argument, I want to do so if only I could be assured its outcome would be that our friendship be unaltered.

DKG and me, after she signed my ripped event ticket because I'd loaned out her book

In the Fall, I was lucky enough to sit very close to a stage where Doris Kearns Goodwin, reknowned American historian and bestselling author of Team of Rivals, et. al.--also one of my very favorite writers--regaled a large audience with tales of ex-presidents, baseball, and history. In that audience sat folks of all ilk and belief, and Goodwin was a rock star. And I'm quite certain that everyone in the audience, be they Democrat or Republican, Manhattanite or mountain-dweller, Christian or Hindi, had a marvelous time. That they (we) all learned something. That we walked away from the presentation of an historical debate the better for having engaged in it.

I'm still working on my problem of enjoying the argument a bit too much. But the truth is, it's in my blood. And I hope beyond hope, that when it comes to most debates, my mind is open. That it may be changed. And that if it's not, that out of the argument the truth will spring in all its glory, and I'll catch a bit of it in my hands.