Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
I heard this poem several times as a child. My friend reminded me of it this week. I never knew what to make of it. I’m Thursday’s child. I have “far to go.” It’s an ambiguous distinction to be sure.
Compounding the confusion, my parents named me Kerri. It means…wait for it…”dark one.” Now occasionally, some kind interpreter will try to turn it into “seeker of light,” but really, that’s just being optimistic.
Dark One is sadly right on the nose for me. There is something about me that cannot help but be attracted troubled souls and tortured thoughts. I’m also a pretty dark-humored gal, and I’ve been plagued by a sense of wander lust since I can remember. So maybe it all makes sense.
I saw The Great Gatsby a couple of weeks ago. (Review: It’s so beautiful…in a twisted, dark, troubled way. You must see it.) I hadn’t read the book since high school, so I picked up a copy to read it again.
On the back cover is a brief biography of F. Scott Fitzgerald including, “The couple divided their time between New York, Paris and the Riviera, becoming a part of the American expatriate circle that included Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway & John Dos Passos.”
Doesn’t that just sound divine to travel abroad and live among fellow writers and work on your craft together? Of course, I know in reality they had light bills to pay and groceries to shop for and all the mundane things that consume me daily. But in my daydreams, none of those boring problems exist.
Oh how I long for such an existence. Of course, knowing myself, I’d just create other distractions. There would be some party somewhere that needed a theme or something equally emergent.
Maybe the distance I need to travel isn’t one of miles, but of discipline: of self, of mind, of craft. It’s so difficult to know these things.
The most beautiful thoughts to me on the matter have always been the words of Robert Frost.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Or maybe there’s no hidden meaning at all, and my parents were just messing with me, because, you know, why not?