I never questioned if it was real. Of course it was real. The Runestone. The origin? Oh, I don’t know. Vikings? Maybe. Probably. That’s not what was real for me. The Runestone was real because it was the landmark, not for the birthplace of America, but for the neighborhood of Victoria Heights. That’s where my best friend, Barbie Duray lived. In 5th and 6th grade, that was my world. It marked the beginning of me. My becoming. And I believed in it all. I believed in friendship and love and family and fun and belonging and life. How could anything be more real than that.

They have done tests and studies. People continue to research. Is it real? The Runestone? They could have just asked us — the group of 5th graders that gathered together in Victoria Heights. The group of 5th graders that piled into one parent’s station wagon and stuck together with sweaty summer legs on the way to Lake Le Homme Dieu. The group of 5th graders that believed their summer would never end.
You could have just asked us. It was more that real. It still is.

I haven’t seen Barbie (probably “Barb” at this point) in years. I haven’t driven by the Runestone. I don’t live in this city, or even this country, but it is as real and as vivid as the day my mom drove me past this solid rock for the first time.

For it was solid. Still is. No one can take that away — what you believe in. And I do believe in it all. No years or distance can take that away. Friendship. Love. Family. Fun. Belonging. Life. Forever stuck to my youthful legs — my youthful heart. Solid.

About a year ago we went to Coney Island. There was the Wonder Wheel, of course. Beautiful. Lots of lights and history and walking. But the magic didn’t go very deep, until I saw it — this sign. Courage. It was something. Worn, for sure. But then isn’t all of our courage? Tattered. Scribbled. Red. Just as if it had been written on my heart.

I always write things down. Always have. Since I could write. Age 5. It helps me recognize my own feelings. Understand them. Learn from them, and maybe, by some small chance, humbly, help you do the same. I think it’s easier when you can see them. Give them shape. So about 9 years ago, when I was in a moment that I really needed that courage, needed to make a decision that was going to be hard, but oh, so necessary, I gave myself the words. The strength, with each letter.

“Be brave. I thought maybe if I wrote the words down, read them every day, traced them with my fingers…I could live them. I could let go of this “maybe” life and be brave enough to say yes…brave enough to say no. And then, in all the uncertainty around me, I could be certain of this, that I was brave enough to love, to laugh, to cry…to be me…that I was brave enough to really live.”

Today I give you (and myself) the words. Read them. Trace them. Wear your tattered courage. It is bigger than any other wonder. And it is so very beautiful!