Small serenade to this day

Pequeña serenata diurna. That's the title of a canción hermosa by Cuban cantautor Silvio Rodríguez, in which he lists the reasons for his uncomplicated happiness.

He sings about how he is loved and he loves, he has his art and his country. And, thus, he asks the dead (those who died before him, without achieving such happiness) to forgive him.

Soy feliz.
Soy un hombre feliz.
Y quiero que me perdonen
en este día
los muertos de mi felicidad.

Today, I also ask forgiveness of the dead. Of all those whose blood flows through my veins, especially of those whose stories I'll never know. Of all who didn't get a chance at happiness - my unnamed and unknown African ancestors among them.

That's because today (and every day, even on my crankiest days) I am una mujer feliz, inefablemente feliz.

Some might say I don't have all I could wish for. But I say I don't wish for any more than I have.

Unlike the first third of my life, these days I have relatively good health. I also have a large, united family, which though dispersed, maintains itself close; a strong, wonderful man I love, and who loves me; good, supportive friends; a great place to work and excellent colleagues; and students who bring laughter and purpose to my life each and every day I have the privilege to teach and learn from them.

Best of all, having passed the mid point of my fourth decade, I finally have been granted the emotional maturity that encourages me to put things in perspective and to appreciate and cherish the bounty of Godsends in my life.

Yesterday, as we discussed Midnight's Children in class, we talked about how Rushdie merges the past, the present and the future. We also talked about how the future guides the main character of the novel to revisit the past. Saleem Sinai, that child of all colonial midnights, is not propelled by the past or by his present, but by his future.

This morning, I recalled that conversation while walking the dogs in the breathtakingly beautiful country, as the shafts of sunlight broke through the trees and illuminated the road ahead of us like beacons, signaling the open possibilities of this day. Then, I had an small epiphany.

It's the future, not the past, that should guide our life project. We should decide what kind of life we yearn to live, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. If we find ourselves among the truly privileged, the afortunados de la tierra, who have access to the future we can dream of, that should be our blueprint.

The past teaches us about the things we don't ever want to do again, the people we should stay away from, the situations that are toxic to our lives, the person we don't want to become or continue being. The future, however, is like soft, malleable, red-earth clay, ready and willing to take shape in our hands.

The millions of unnamed and unsung dead, and the millions of desafortunados de la tierra, must perforce remind us that it's a privilege to have a future filled with possibility. We must not squander one hour, one second, one minute of it.

Lady Macbeth knew it well. The deed, or the past, is done. It can't be undone. The spots of blood won't come off. There's nothing left but to learn from, make peace with, and be accountable for our missteps. That's all we can do in the past.

The future, however, is the small serenade to this day, and to every day that awakens filled with promise. For that privilege, for that intimate and inexpressible joy, I am grateful.

And for that I also ask forgiveness of the dead. But I also pledge that because of my happiness and my privilege, they will never be forgotten.