I believe that in all of us lies a passion for something – whether we are aware of what it is, I believe it is there. Some of us are lucky enough to know where our passion lies, and luckier still to have more than one. Those of us who don't believe they have a passion, something in their lives that fills them with a sense of satisfaction, pride, or happiness, in and of itself, in my humble opinion either haven't dared to dream – to look within themselves to find what makes them feel creative, challenged, drawn to – or are scared. Scared of both success and failure. Those are two things that, though seemingly polar opposites, elicit many of the same doubts and anxieties in us. And in many cases they happen at an unconscious level that makes us stop before we even start to dream.
Passions are varied and I don't believe that any are “better” than any others – they take many forms: writing, painting, birdwatching, photography, music, cooking, humor, building things, being with children – what really makes people happy, and feel complete abounds if we can look at it in a broader sense of unbridled creation, exploration, and dedication to further our knowledge and understanding of that which we hold dear. We tend to relegate these things to the category of “hobbies” which diminishes their worth and the value they hold in our lives.
But why the fear? We seem to be taught at a young age not to dream, though I don't think this is implicitly done. We get these dueling ideologies that are hard to reconcile: we can be anything we want to be, but Mom and Dad lumber off to meaningless, senseless, and mind numbing jobs each day. This is a cognitive dissonance if I've ever seen one. Yet some of us still continue to dream and do end up being what they want to be. More of us though never really seem to think about it too much – when we are kids we dream of being writers, artists, movie stars, doctors, major league sports players, but somewhere along the way reality sets in and most of us let go of those dreams, take our place in some office job – though the grandiose dreams of course, are truly unlikely to happen no matter how much one hopes.
Why do we let them go completely though? Why, as we get older, do we not allow ourselves to find what we are really about and take solace in it?
Having a passion and having skill are not necessarily mutually exclusive. And I don't think they necessarily have to be. For example, I have always loved writing. But it is not something I will ever claim to be goodat. To me, it doesn't matter if I am good at it or not, though it took me awhile to get to that point. It was as though I was scared of the possibility that Icould be goodor even worse that I wouldwant to beand not. But it really doesn't matter, if writing is what I enjoy, I should do it, whether it is good or not. What does it hurt? When I was young, I freely expressed myself with the written word: I wrote stories of talking animals, plays that my stepbrothers and I performed proudly, but somewhere along the way it stopped. I became self conscious about it. Doubts began to play themselves in my mind and I stopped writing. For years.
During my current stint dealing with the lovely disorder that is anxiety, I began to think of ways that I could use my nervous energy, to let my mind wonder in healthy ways (i.e. not negatively obsessive ways), and I decided that I would try to write some fiction, just to see where it went. I started and I fell in love with writing again, I find it to be very therapeutic and I feel as if I am allowing my mind to flow creatively in a way that I haven't for a long time or really ever to be honest with you (I have moved beyond talking birds thankfully). I won't claim that my fiction is good, that the plot is concise, or the characters are solid, but I am able to imagine things beyond the world I live in, people different from myself, perspectives that I haven't experienced, and lacing in some of the things that I have. More importantly, I haveenjoyedit, more than I have enjoyed any activity I can honestly recall besides cooking. It has been fun, trulyfun. I feel alive and like I am realizing something I thought I let go of a long time ago. And let me tell you what, it is a far healthier way to expend my nervous energy than obsessing and ruminating about silly things.
The thing is, I don't have an expectations of anything to come of this. I love writing and will continue to write even if I never finish a work, let alone get published. But I am also not going to be afraid to put myself out there, to take the risk, that if I create something I am proud of, that I think others would enjoy, I would at least try to put it out there. I've learned that in the end, the journey is the point of the passion, not recognition, criticism, failure, success, or anything like that. But it doesn't also mean that it wouldn't be an incredibly high honor to have someone else read and appreciate my words - just as I imagine most others feel about their crafts or activities.
It has been such a fulfilling discovery – or rediscovery really of writing, a childhood dream that seemed silly, now realized even if only seen by Selina whom I force my awful drafts upon. :-) But in some ways, I like to think I have helped her too, helped her discoverherpassions as I have discovered mine. I love when I see it in other people – a happiness, aproudnessabout something that also makes them vulnerable – they take the risk that someone will find them silly, not worthy, but they trudge on anyway. Why? Because they love it, that's why, and it doesn't matter if they are the only person who does. I wish more of us felt comfortable enough to be this way, I believe we'd be a lot happier as a whole.
In some ways, it takes a lot of bravery to not only explore ones passion but to attempt to share it with others. While I don't think that the sharing of the passion is necessary, it can add to the importance one places on it. I feel myself immensely lucky that I am surrounded by people who follow their interests and see where it leads them. I believe that doing so can be healing, and can also add that one little piece that seems to be missing – that thing that we know isn't there, but can't seem to put our finger on what it is (I am talking about meaning here). I am so proud of my husband, who though he feels like the worlds largest nerd, has taken back up the idea spawned in his child brain, now sophisticated and taking shape as something tangible. I am proud of my friend Selina, who discovered that more than anything, her garden is her place, those plants are her passion and she also found out she was good at it (though I am not surprised). I am proud of my friend Bob who spends much of his free time on the disc golf course trying to perfect that shot. It is when doing those things, or talking about those things, that they are most themselves, if that makes any sense. And I think it is a joy to see.
It is hard to take a risk to try something new, even if the vulnerability we feel is only internal. We have to believe in ourselves that we can try it, and if we fail, we either move on to the next idea or we try again. Life is too short to just go to work from 9-5, come home, sit zombie-like in front of the television, before we go to bed, wake up and start the whole unpleasant cycle all over again. At least with when we explore ourselves, the world, with interest, we can add some color, and even meaning to our lives. And who knows, to those of us who are really lucky (and truth be told, really talented), one might be fortunate enough to be able to make one's living sharing their craft, their knowledge, their game, their skill, their whatever with the world.
Anyway, just my random musings.
'Til next time.
Passions are varied and I don't believe that any are “better” than any others – they take many forms: writing, painting, birdwatching, photography, music, cooking, humor, building things, being with children – what really makes people happy, and feel complete abounds if we can look at it in a broader sense of unbridled creation, exploration, and dedication to further our knowledge and understanding of that which we hold dear. We tend to relegate these things to the category of “hobbies” which diminishes their worth and the value they hold in our lives.
But why the fear? We seem to be taught at a young age not to dream, though I don't think this is implicitly done. We get these dueling ideologies that are hard to reconcile: we can be anything we want to be, but Mom and Dad lumber off to meaningless, senseless, and mind numbing jobs each day. This is a cognitive dissonance if I've ever seen one. Yet some of us still continue to dream and do end up being what they want to be. More of us though never really seem to think about it too much – when we are kids we dream of being writers, artists, movie stars, doctors, major league sports players, but somewhere along the way reality sets in and most of us let go of those dreams, take our place in some office job – though the grandiose dreams of course, are truly unlikely to happen no matter how much one hopes.
Why do we let them go completely though? Why, as we get older, do we not allow ourselves to find what we are really about and take solace in it?
Having a passion and having skill are not necessarily mutually exclusive. And I don't think they necessarily have to be. For example, I have always loved writing. But it is not something I will ever claim to be goodat. To me, it doesn't matter if I am good at it or not, though it took me awhile to get to that point. It was as though I was scared of the possibility that Icould be goodor even worse that I wouldwant to beand not. But it really doesn't matter, if writing is what I enjoy, I should do it, whether it is good or not. What does it hurt? When I was young, I freely expressed myself with the written word: I wrote stories of talking animals, plays that my stepbrothers and I performed proudly, but somewhere along the way it stopped. I became self conscious about it. Doubts began to play themselves in my mind and I stopped writing. For years.
During my current stint dealing with the lovely disorder that is anxiety, I began to think of ways that I could use my nervous energy, to let my mind wonder in healthy ways (i.e. not negatively obsessive ways), and I decided that I would try to write some fiction, just to see where it went. I started and I fell in love with writing again, I find it to be very therapeutic and I feel as if I am allowing my mind to flow creatively in a way that I haven't for a long time or really ever to be honest with you (I have moved beyond talking birds thankfully). I won't claim that my fiction is good, that the plot is concise, or the characters are solid, but I am able to imagine things beyond the world I live in, people different from myself, perspectives that I haven't experienced, and lacing in some of the things that I have. More importantly, I haveenjoyedit, more than I have enjoyed any activity I can honestly recall besides cooking. It has been fun, trulyfun. I feel alive and like I am realizing something I thought I let go of a long time ago. And let me tell you what, it is a far healthier way to expend my nervous energy than obsessing and ruminating about silly things.
The thing is, I don't have an expectations of anything to come of this. I love writing and will continue to write even if I never finish a work, let alone get published. But I am also not going to be afraid to put myself out there, to take the risk, that if I create something I am proud of, that I think others would enjoy, I would at least try to put it out there. I've learned that in the end, the journey is the point of the passion, not recognition, criticism, failure, success, or anything like that. But it doesn't also mean that it wouldn't be an incredibly high honor to have someone else read and appreciate my words - just as I imagine most others feel about their crafts or activities.
It has been such a fulfilling discovery – or rediscovery really of writing, a childhood dream that seemed silly, now realized even if only seen by Selina whom I force my awful drafts upon. :-) But in some ways, I like to think I have helped her too, helped her discoverherpassions as I have discovered mine. I love when I see it in other people – a happiness, aproudnessabout something that also makes them vulnerable – they take the risk that someone will find them silly, not worthy, but they trudge on anyway. Why? Because they love it, that's why, and it doesn't matter if they are the only person who does. I wish more of us felt comfortable enough to be this way, I believe we'd be a lot happier as a whole.
In some ways, it takes a lot of bravery to not only explore ones passion but to attempt to share it with others. While I don't think that the sharing of the passion is necessary, it can add to the importance one places on it. I feel myself immensely lucky that I am surrounded by people who follow their interests and see where it leads them. I believe that doing so can be healing, and can also add that one little piece that seems to be missing – that thing that we know isn't there, but can't seem to put our finger on what it is (I am talking about meaning here). I am so proud of my husband, who though he feels like the worlds largest nerd, has taken back up the idea spawned in his child brain, now sophisticated and taking shape as something tangible. I am proud of my friend Selina, who discovered that more than anything, her garden is her place, those plants are her passion and she also found out she was good at it (though I am not surprised). I am proud of my friend Bob who spends much of his free time on the disc golf course trying to perfect that shot. It is when doing those things, or talking about those things, that they are most themselves, if that makes any sense. And I think it is a joy to see.
It is hard to take a risk to try something new, even if the vulnerability we feel is only internal. We have to believe in ourselves that we can try it, and if we fail, we either move on to the next idea or we try again. Life is too short to just go to work from 9-5, come home, sit zombie-like in front of the television, before we go to bed, wake up and start the whole unpleasant cycle all over again. At least with when we explore ourselves, the world, with interest, we can add some color, and even meaning to our lives. And who knows, to those of us who are really lucky (and truth be told, really talented), one might be fortunate enough to be able to make one's living sharing their craft, their knowledge, their game, their skill, their whatever with the world.
Anyway, just my random musings.'Til next time.