Free I Am in Here by Elizabeth M. Bonker Page B

Select Literate Friends and Dr. Moms.
    Every year for more than seventeen years running, the facetiously named Select Literate Friends (SLF) has come together as a community on paper. My dear friend and fellow venture capitalist, Fred, started SLF because he was on the hunt for great books and asked a few friends to email him a list of their top ten favorite books. From the 153 of us who participated that first year, the network effect of each friend telling a few friends whotold a few friends (on top of Fred’s tireless recruiting) has created a community. At first we were united by our love of books, but we have now shared all sorts of other silly and serious slices of our lives. You might consider spreading this idea. Ask a few friends to swap their top ten book lists, and it could blossom into an SLF community of your own.
    In the beginning of SLF, I followed the suggested topic such as top ten movies or places; then the chaos of autism hit and I just could not find the words. Like Elizabeth, I had no voice of my own to share. So what did I do? I did exactly what Elizabeth did. I found my voice through poetry.
    In 1999, I submitted my favorite poem, William Wordsworth’s “Ode: Imitations of Immortality.” I sent in the whole ode, all 208 lines of it, for my SLFs to bask in its glory. Extracting only a few lines of this masterpiece and having it make sense is a challenge, but I want to share them with you, my new Select Literate Friends.
    There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
    The earth, and every common sight,
    Â    To me did seem
    Apparelled in celestial light,
    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
    Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
    The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
    Hath had elsewhere its setting,
    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
    From God, who is our home:
    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    We will grieve not, rather find
    Strength in what remains behind;
    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    Out of human suffering;
    In the faith that looks through death,
    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
    Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
    To me the meanest flower that blows can give
    Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. [1]
    Wordsworth beautifully captures the arc of human experience as well as his love of nature, God as our home, lost innocence, gained perspective, suffering, kindness, and thanksgiving. In college I studied this poem, but I had a hard time writing the required paper because it was so awe-inspiring. I felt the ode with my heart, not my head.
    After years of submitting the writings of others to SLF, I found my voice only after Elizabeth found hers on the letterboard. Mine was a weak, squeaky voice in that first autism journey letter. As Wordsworth ministered in his “Ode,” I tried not to grieve but to find strength in what was left behind. We were still suffering, but we had thanks to give, and I gave it in those letters.
    After all our SLF submissions are sent in, Fred binds them and sends them to all the participants as a Christmas gift. The SLF entries include contact information so we can communicate with each other between the annual letters. In the years that this group has followed our autism journey, I have received precious emails and phone calls cheering us on. Most ask if they can