Listen to your own song, Elizabeth

Few topics blaze the headlines these days like the John Edwards political sex scandal — a scandal that has cast his wife, Elizabeth, into a media-blitzed spotlight.

The mere mention of Elizabeth Edwards' name elicits varied reactions, following the release of Andrew Young’s book, “The Politician.” The former top aide to John Edwards not only details the tabloid sex scandal that publicly emerged two years ago — he unflatteringly portrays Elizabeth Edwards alongside her husband.

Despite these recent events, the name Elizabeth Edwards doesn’t evoke such adverse associations within me. Instead, it awakens my memories of an unlikely graduation commencement message that still resonates nearly six years following its delivery.

It was the culmination of my college career — one that had been interrupted midway as I journeyed the railroad tracks of Europe to “discover myself.” And oddly, I had found myself — back home, working to pay off my accrued debt. Such reality had proved unromantic, and so I had returned to college. My parents’ persistent prayers answered, I was finally graduating.

Although thrilling, it was a day permeated by uncertainty. My future seemed somewhat directionless. And as my Peace College classmates and I sweltered in the May morning’s heat, I questioned both what lay ahead and why bathing suits weren’t deemed appropriate attire beneath graduation robes.

I remember fanning myself with a graduation program, periodically flipping its contents for amusement as Elizabeth Edwards approached the podium. The year was 2004, and soon her husband would accept the Democratic Party’s vice presidential nomination following an unsuccessful bid for president.

Her speech was entitled “Listen to Your Own Song.” She said it was a message we would seldom hear. And to date, I have not heard it repeated.

It was not a speech outlined in expectations. No such missive. Conversely, Edwards instructed my classmates and I to ignore the infinite expectations of others and to make our own choices. She charged us not to concern ourselves with the imposed expectations of family, community, nation and world; instead, she charged us to hold tight to our own sense of what was right. And not let go of it. Being true to ourselves, to our ethical core, and to our individual dreams would be our refuge, she said.

That would be our song.

Over the years, I have often discovered Edwards’ charge a difficult one to follow.

Through failed attempts, I have discovered that upholding one’s song is perhaps the greatest test in this life.

Nothing fully prepares one for the moment, if one dares, to halt taking cues from others and instead charge forward for one’s self — thus cultivating one’s own song.

I’ve experienced both pleasure and, more often times disappointment, by pursuing my own song’s rhythm, always influenced by my choices. With each failure, I have learned the necessity of evaluating all choices, and often, to ensure they represent the sort of song worth singing.

The times in my life when I’ve felt “lost” were the times I wasn’t being true to myself, my ethical core, or my individual dreams.

During these times, I believed my song had permanently disappeared — yet was thrilled when the familiar melody eased its way back into the very spirit of my life.

In adverse times, and my own failings, I revisit Edwards’ message — specifically one line that has stuck with me since its delivery:

“Don’t ever be afraid to say that this is not the path I meant to take; I need to get it right; don’t ever be afraid to start over and get it right.”

Edwards’ message, delivered on the front lawn of my alma mater, was the dial of a compass pointing with clarity in one definite direction — within the very spirit of every young woman seated before her.

And as Edwards faces adversities, I hope she will remember the charge she imprinted on the lives of the Peace College class of 2004 —- that she will listen to her own song. Hers. And to not let go of it.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Listen to your own song Elizabeth