Thought the list might enjoy the following. Enjoy. Mary C. ANNA QUINDLEN'S COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS AT VILLANOVA UNIVERSITY > > 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 re-election 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 mind, 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 cut-out. But I 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's what I wanted to tell you today: get a life. A real > life, not a manic pursuit of the next promotion, the bigger pay check, 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. 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 kids > 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 real 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. > >