Yesterday, I spent the day immersed in the life of Thomas Jefferson. I skimmed his Garden Book, read the first and second inaugural addresses, pored over his letters to Lewis and Clark, studied his recipes for crème brûlée and snow eggs. That is when I wasn’t mapping out our vegetable garden and planning the menu for Easter dinner and—oh!—until I remembered that I needed to finish last year’s birthday present for a friend so I could give it to her while I finish this year’s present, which was “due” three days ago. So, I stopped and did the finish work on a knitted wrap while I listened to a recorded version of Song of Myself.
All of these books I’ve been reading refer to Jefferson as a “polymath.” They talk about his interests—and expertise, really—in law and politics, yes, but also in botany and paleontology, in language and philosophy and literature. One of my favorite proclamations by TJ is in a letter to Madame Noailles de Tessé, written January 30, 1803, from the White House: “I cannot but admire your courage in undertaking now to plant trees. [I]t has always been my passion, insomuch that I rarely ever planted a flower in my life. But when I return to live at Monticello, which may be in 1805, but will be in 1809 at the latest . . . . I believe I shall become a florist.”
Yes, there you have it. The third President of the United States, who admittedly had never planted anything himself, was setting out his future course as a florist. That is achingly familiar territory. I mean I know that I can’t remember anything more than a single paragraph of college biology, but lately I have been thinking I want to be a botanist. Or at least a botanical illustrator. Except that I can’t really draw. Yet. Seriously, that is what I have been thinking about.
Last week, I had the great good fortune to see my friend and mentor, Steven Wax, in a dialog with Georgetown historian, Michael Kazin. Steve is the Federal Defender for the District of Oregon, and he (bravely) hired me straight out of a judicial clerkship despite his policy of hiring only lawyers with trial experience. I worked for Steve for eight years, loved (nearly) every second of it, but then moved on to the next thing, to the next shiny object, which I also loved. But there is Steve, twenty years after I first met him, still doing the people’s work. Still fighting for civil liberties and justice and prosecutorial accountability. Still getting up every day and standing between vulnerable citizens and a powerful and voracious government.
For the last few days, I have had a pain as persistent as a toothache—nagging at me, reprimanding me for my inability—or unwillingness—to focus, to settle in, to really commit to an interest or a project. Lawyer. Poet. Knitter. Gardener. Cook. Maybe botanist or illustrator. What about astronaut or FBI agent?
My dear friend Jennifer Viviano upbraids me every time I pull out the dreaded “d word”—dilettante. Without fail, she replies: “I prefer the term polymath.” But look at this, here is the definition:
1. A person who claims an area of interest, such as the arts, without real commitment or knowledge.
2. A person with an amateur interest in the arts.
And the synonym? Dabbler. Yes, another D word. I love my job, it is the perfect job for a –ahem–polymath. One project to the next, a problem to solve, then another one. Same thing for poems. This week, it’s the voice of an 18th century Virginian. Last week, it was a 20th century Oregon logger. I could never stick with something as long as, say, a novel.
But, here’s the thing. I want to be more like Steve Wax or Walt Whitman, who worked on one poem for his whole life, but I am well into middle age, and I don’t see anything changing. I know I am going to have drawers full of unfinished projects and notebooks full of unrealized essays and poems and ideas. I pity my poor children, after I am gone, left to sort through the detritus of garden tools and sketch books and yarn. My only hope, I guess, is that dear Jennifer is around to pat their hands as they write the obituary. I just hope she’ll cross out the capital “D” say “No, no. Let’s call her a “polymath.”
