When harry was younger his mother would read him a poem. It was her favorite poem, the type you paste to the refrigerator to remind you constantly that you were going to be someone special, someone amazing.
Anne loved her son with a passion so great, that she wanted him to believe he could be anyone he wanted. But she wanted to give him the humble beginnings that would keep his feet rooted firmly to the ground, as his head explored the clouds above.
And so she read this poem to herself every morning as she made his breakfast.
Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
such striving may seem admirable,
but it is a way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples, and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.
You see there wasn't a day Anne didn't believe Harry would do great things. He was in all ways an extraordinary child.
He was so very kind, so very passionate. Even when he wrote her a note saying he was mad at her, he would write in his childish scribbles "P.S I'll always still love you mum".
She wanted him to never lose sight of the marvels the world held for him. So she learned this poem by heart, it became her mantra. It was the only parenting book she would ever need.
Anne taught Harry about the beauties of an empty field at the break of dawn, and the emotions a single line of poetry could deliver. When he felt sad, when he was about to cry, she let him. She did not have him put up a front or mask his emotions. And above all, she taught him that nothing was ordinary. The grassiest of knolls, the highest of mountains, the barest of plains, all held an extraordinary wonder that the greatest of writers dedicated lives to portray.
To Harry, this was the greatest of lessons he could have ever received. For when he was at his lowest, at his highest, at his best or worst, he longed for the solace of nature. It is there where he composed his songs, where he wrote verses and mumble melodies. It is there where he saw how ordinarily extraordinary nature was.
When he tasted a banana, or the sweet chocolate he was so fond of he was amazed by the happiness that would spread through his body. When he hugged someone, he was amazed at how much emotion such a simple act could carry. And when he sang, it never ceased to amaze him how many people listened.
But as extraordinary his life is, and as extraordinary everything is to him, he wishes so greatly for the ordinary.
It is perhaps the thing he misses the most.
Being able to walk down a street without having to be concious of who is walking. Of having to be careful of what he says, who he is with, what he does.
The extraordinary life everyone believes he is leading is losing its luster.
And he wishes so deeply it were not that way.