blue ribbons

In fifth grade, I finally figured it out. After three years of trying to do everything just like my best friend, I got a wake up call. I wish I could take the credit myself, but this wasn't an empirical epiphany arrived at all my own. Credit goes to Aunt E, who, every year waited in the wings, hands up suggesting a hip-hip-hooray, even though I didn't get a blue ribbon. K always won a blue Reflections ribbon, perfectly perched birds the result of hours worth of careful charcoal strokes and pencil scrapings. The year before the birds, it was something equally as magnificent and equally as unattainable by my not-so-artistic hands.

After a few years worth of tears, Aunt E suggested I put down the colored pencils and try writing instead. She edited and encouraged the night before entries were to be submitted. The first year I wrote a poem about time. It was called Time. It's safe to say I didn't get that blue ribbon for originality, but I did get it and the victory was sweet. I skipped home, ribbon in hand, as it twirled around and around in the spring air. As soon as I reached my room, I slipped it over the arm of one of my gold violin Federation cups, next to soccer trophies, mostly won while I cheered my team on from the sidelines, next to my coach with his legendary white ponytail and long beard.

The next year, I added another blue ribbon, and the next, another. I had found my niche. My collection was nowhere near as large as K's, but there was a lesson in those blue lanyards: We're not all meant to enter the same race. And we're not all meant to win. At least not always. Blue doesn't seem quite as glorious until it's placed next to second-place red. Gold wouldn't gleam as brightly without silver to shine down upon. And truthfully, those ribbons don't really matter. Truthfully, years down the road, they'll just end up gathering dust in a box on the highest shelf of some closet, miles away from where they used to perch.

No one has ever asked me if I've won a Reflections ribbon. The winning and oh-so-originally titled poem, Time isn't attached to my resume, nor do I plan to have Dan McConkie recite it at my funeral. In fact, I haven't a clue where to find a copy. What a victory to know that we all find our niche; that we all get our moment in the sun, even if an Aunt E is the only one hip-hooraying us in the wings. Most of us grow up to be average people with average lives. The ribbons come down, the trophies are put away, and winners are soon forgotten. What matters most is what we're working on in the present; in the today. And what time has taught us along the way.