Opus You the Great

"Great things are done by a series of small things brought together." 
--Vincent Van Gogh

To continue a theme from the post, "A Great Cloud of Expectations", if we whittle down our great expectations so that we don't succumb to generalized pressures, then what brings about the "true greatness" that I broadly referred to at its end? There is a lot in our lives that doesn't feel very great, and we often don't feel so great in our lives, so what is the use of talking about greatness? It's a term that seems reserved for celebrities of the arts and sciences, ancient masters of talent, and conquerors of expansive territories.  I want to be clearer about what I mean by "great".

Like the word "amazing", the word "great" gets tossed around a lot about things that aren't all that. Likewise the word "awesome". Most of us notice this even as we do it. Usually what we mean to say in those instances is "nice" "pleasing" "entertaining" or "stress-relieving". I have a fond memory of guys in high school during the Eighties using the word "decent" when they liked something. They said it with excitement and vigor, but it felt just right, not overdone. It didn't last, however, being in competition with great, awesome, and amazing.

I once realized that the word "great" hadn't always been the favorite assignation to something well-liked when my dad wrote me a thank you note, and put the word in quotes. It struck me as odd, and then I realized that I hadn't heard his parents saying that regularly. I tried to remember what they did say, and the only memory I have is, "that was really something." This seems like a generational difference, for people who had lived during the time of "The Great War" and then a "Great Depression." That word wouldn't automatically conjure up notions of anything good or beneficial for them. 

Yet however vague "something" sounds as an affirmation, my grandparents were still using a phrase that expressed  a singular impression of the "ineffable", meaning "too great or extreme to be described in words" or "not to be uttered", according to Miriam-Webster. But we want to describe "it", and so we catch hold of various words and phrases that come in and out of style. So the utterance "great" will have to do for now, to describe what is "too great" to be described.

To me, true greatness is something that we don't really have, as a character trait. It's more of a property or quality of the universe that we bump up against at times, and that "something" shines through us. We see it happening a lot with performers, because they are often gathering together all of the elements they need for greatness to arrive, formally invited, and ready to be applauded and celebrated. But most of us know people or animals or landscapes or events that aren't in the public eye on a grand scale, but still generate a moment of uplift. Artists try to "capture" it and we are drawn to the works that come the closest to reminding us of what is too strong, quiet and powerful to ever be captured.

One of the elements of these moments of greatness is us. When we are part of those singular moments, whether as vessels or witnesses, we are necessary and vital participants. We're not just consumers if we have shown up for it. We have become alert to the possibility of a great experience, we plan for it, we scout out a ticket, and dress in finery to sit in a plush theater seat. Or, we gleefully put on something comfortable as we station ourselves in our favorite cozy chair and tune in with anticipation.  Of course there is mindless and passive reception for pastimes, but there are also intentional and ritual ways of being present for what is being presented. We have come ready to take our place in someone's opus. 

Back to words for a moment,"opus" is a word I had long assumed I knew the meaning of, but didn't. My daughter just recently told me that it simply means "work". I've always thought that it meant a grand, final, culminating, all-defining, symphonic masterpiece. It carries that Latin gravitas which, for me, made the title of the feel-good movie, "Mr. Holland's Opus" promise to deliver a dramatic and touching performance of music at the end, which it does. Of course, the movie makes clear that Mr. Holland had positively affected the lives of his students and family, and that this in-gathering of his past efforts with them are what make the performance of his music to be the great part, beyond his having finally completing it and offering it publicly.

Look Down, Fair Moon words by Walt Whitman

Another time the word "opus" came to mind was due to the lovable character of Opus the Penguin from the comic strip, "Bloom County". I thought he was named that ironically, because he was the opposite of gravitas, all-defining, purposeful, culminating or touching. He is simple, innocently self-centered, and reflective, as he wanders around his territory, like a hip Winnie the Pooh. And yet, I recall people saying that they loved Opus or that "Opus is great." In some ways, Opus and Mr. Holland aren't all that different, as they stumble through life, feeling amused, charmed, dissatisfied, disillusioned, frustrated, inspired, egotistical, outraged and hopeful, down to the "tuxedo" that is a part of them. Mr. Holland's public tuxedo moment was a long time in coming, while Opus wears his black and white tails as a non-momentous daily uniform. The character of Opus is the greatness of Bloom County, as he does absolutely no work. Mr. Holland's work is the greatness he encourages in others.

There are people who wear their greatness lightly, like Opus the penguin, and others who wrestle with attempts at what they perceive as greatness while they unwittingly usher it in, like Mr. Holland. Many of us go back and forth between these two states as we traverse our own Hundred Acre Woods, Bloom Counties and High School music rooms, wherever we find ourselves plunked down. We show up and do the opus we've been given to do. And every now and then greatness makes a date with us.