Remember way back when, (I'm talkin WAY back, Elementary School Way Back) when you were just learning how to interact with the written word? When you were learning that it was okay to question what you read. In fact, sometimes it was even expected. Especially when your second and third grade teachers asked you why the author wrote the story you just read together as a class? And you had NO idea?
Well, Nora is at that point in her education and, unlike her mum at that age, seems to have a pretty good grasp on this. Oh, she gets stuck from time to time, and defers to her mum's expertise only to balk indignantly when I, too, am stumped. "YOU don't know the purpose! MOM! It HAS to be pie!" (PIE being the acronym for (a) persuade (b) inform, or (c) entertain.)
Oh, right... PIE!
Oh, right... PIE!
It's moments like these when I'd like to give her a piece of pie! But then I tell myself, she's eight. She doesn't mean to be insulting. I think she truly believes that we, as parents, (aka old people) do know everything. Should know everything. And for the most part, her dad does. Really! Oh, he'd deny, deny, deny, but the man is smart. He reads everything. And the more technical the material, the better. You put a map, or a manual, in his hand, and you can practically see him salivate. Which is why, for the most part, (okay for the math parts) Nora always seeks him out at homework time. Which is FINE with me!
But I am digressing. I am not identifying this author's purpose at all.
Well here it is: my purpose in writing this post is to link my daughter's learning with where I am in my life.
So here goes:
The other morning, (at 6:25 a.m.) when I was tired and didn't want to get out of bed, Nora, (as usual) fully-dressed-and-ready-for-the-day, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Mom we should get up now. It's breakfast time."
So here goes:
The other morning, (at 6:25 a.m.) when I was tired and didn't want to get out of bed, Nora, (as usual) fully-dressed-and-ready-for-the-day, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Mom we should get up now. It's breakfast time."
After I pried my eyes open, I thought, shouldn't I be tapping her on the shoulder? Shouldn't I be asking HER this question? But I've never had to be too motherly to Nora. She's always been so independent, so capable. Why, on the weekends, she's been known to bring ME breakfast in bed! (Cold toast with a smear of peanut butter and a glass of O.J.) She's never wanted too much help with her homework either, preferring the "do-it-myself" approach. And, thanks to the Internet, and the fact that she's an excellent reader, if she doesn't know something, she simply looks it up. So basically, all I had to do to set her on her path in life, was teach her to read and pee in the toilet. Which, in her early days, often occurred simultaneously. Thus, between her eight-year-old independence, and Anna living "on her own" in Bellingham, I have days when I feel as if I've been set adrift, left without a purpose.
I know how cliche this must sound; another case of Empty Nest Syndrome. But, in my defense, my nest isn't completely empty. Just on weekdays, from 9:00 to 3:30. And don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I will be the first one to tell you that I have a great life. I love my life! I love my family and I LOVE being here for them. And, apparently, I love saying "I love!" I'm just wondering if I shouldn't be doing something more during the time we are apart. And by more, I mean more meaningful, more purposeful.
Living a life with purpose, (living the life I was meant to live, or at least I want to live) is something I've tried to do forever. But what, exactly, does living a life with purpose look like? Does it mean getting up every morning and going to work? Collecting a paycheck twice a month? Even if the job you go to is a job you hate? Or does it mean sticking to your dreams, following the path you believe was chosen for you, chosen by you? I realize the latter definition can be seen as idealistic, unrealistic. Something that not everyone can afford to do. Not when there are bills to be paid, chores to be done. I also realize it's VERY easy for me to sit here and philosophize about life, as I go through my day folding laundry, shopping for groceries, and "stringing sentences together for pleasure,"* while my sweet husband is at work earning our bread and butter. Nevertheless, the question What am I here for is one I've always struggled with. And that struggle has gotten even stronger lately.
A few weeks ago, the only thing I had on my calendar was a haircut at 1:00. And after taking Nora to school, I was fidgety. Admittedly, this could have been the result of the Grande coffee I purchased from Starbucks on the way home from school. But then again, maybe not. I tend to be fidgety and anxious by nature, a result of the freakishly similar DNA I inherited from my Grandma Dahl.
It was 9:00; four whole hours until my appointment. The weather didn't help either. It was cold. It was icy. Too icy to ride my bike. So I turned on the fireplace (Ah... the perks of modern living) and got out my knitting. After just a few rows, however, my cat intervened and started batting at the yarn. Eventually, I gave into him and drug it around the coffee table for him, so he could feel, a bit, like the predator that he is not. After a few laps, though, I saw my reflection in the window: bed hair, yoga pants, and the t-shirt I wore to bed last night. And it hit me: I'm becoming my father! So yes, some days, having a purpose would be good.
A few weeks ago, the only thing I had on my calendar was a haircut at 1:00. And after taking Nora to school, I was fidgety. Admittedly, this could have been the result of the Grande coffee I purchased from Starbucks on the way home from school. But then again, maybe not. I tend to be fidgety and anxious by nature, a result of the freakishly similar DNA I inherited from my Grandma Dahl.
It was 9:00; four whole hours until my appointment. The weather didn't help either. It was cold. It was icy. Too icy to ride my bike. So I turned on the fireplace (Ah... the perks of modern living) and got out my knitting. After just a few rows, however, my cat intervened and started batting at the yarn. Eventually, I gave into him and drug it around the coffee table for him, so he could feel, a bit, like the predator that he is not. After a few laps, though, I saw my reflection in the window: bed hair, yoga pants, and the t-shirt I wore to bed last night. And it hit me: I'm becoming my father! So yes, some days, having a purpose would be good.
And I don't think it has to be something huge. I'm not looking to save the world, just my sanity from time to time. Writing on this blog provides me with a great sense of purpose, a creative outlet that I don't get anywhere else. Yet, it's really only meaningful to me. Is that enough? Or do I need validation from others? I used to be a teacher. That was definitely meaningful. I was shaping young minds, after all. Okay, so I was just teaching six-year-olds how to read, but I was preparing their young minds for future shaping. And it provided me with everything I seem to be currently seeking: a sense of service, respect from my peers, a sense of belonging to a community greater than my nuclear family, a place to go every day. And let's not forget--that all-mighty paycheck. But does my history as a teacher mean I must always be a teacher? I hope not. For I don't think that's the path I want to take any longer. Recently, someone told me "you just need a new passion." Oh is that all? But how does one go about this? Is there a web-site for those seeking a new passion, a new purpose? And, if so, does it list part-time options? I'd still like to be home at 3:30 when Nora gets out of school. I've got my priorities ya know..
Oh to be one of the chosen: The blessed MLKs of the world. The Gandhis, the Mother Teresas. It must be such a comfort to know, inherently, what you want to do, what you must do. My dad told me recently that he knew, when he was only six-years-old, that he wanted to be a fisherman when he grew up. And, luckily for him, he did. For a while. Until the fishing could no longer pay the bills. Then, like so many, he tucked his dream away, and settled into life as a family-man. Oh, his true self would emerge from time to time: summer vacations at Pillar Point when he'd get in two fishing excursions a day, or early on Saturday mornings when he'd go fishing with my Grandpa. But come Sunday evening, that part of himself would get tucked into the closet along with his fishing poles and tackle boxes.
Despite her short time on this earth, my eight-year-old has been telling me for years that she is going to work with animals when she grows up. As a vet, or a wildlife biologist. And because I know her so well, I, wholeheartedly, see this dream becoming a reality. So why is it that she, and my dad, and those like them, know so early on which path in life to take, while the rest of us struggle? Or is it just me? Me and my unemployed idealism with too much time on our hands.
When I started this post (weeks ago) I initially thought I'd wrap it up by saying something about how I'll use this blog as a means of exploring. Searching for my purpose, my true calling, if you will. Because I know there's still more to come for me. More than washing dishes, folding laundry, and making peanut butter sandwiches. But then I read Jessie Knadler's book, "Rurally Screwed; My Life Off the Grid With the Cowboy I Love," a hilarious memoir about a thirty-something New Yorker who gave up the life she knew and loved in the city to become a chicken-farming-wife in rural Virginia. Becoming this new version of herself had many challenges and at times she felt extreme discontent. Eventually, though, she realized that she needed to stop "looking outside myself for happiness and contentment."*
Her words hit me like a slap in the face. And I'm so annoyed with myself for not coming up with them on my own. For they seem so simple, so obvious. Apparently, I am living proof that you CAN over think things. But she's right. I do need to stop looking for fulfillment outside of myself. Deep down, in my heart, I know who I am, what I am. And it doesn't matter if, to the world, it looks like I'm just a dish-washing, stay-at-home mama.
So I've decided, for now, that writing this blog isn't going to help me find my purpose, it will BE my purpose. My job, if you will. The job that will give me a place to go everyday, to write freely. The job that will allow me to question, to record, to commentate. (Not a bad gig, despite the crappy pay) So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to ramble on about my thoughts, my life with two amazing kids, one bicycle-building husband, and one way-too-hairy-hound-dog, because, sometimes, life just isn't always as Easy As PIE. And, who knows, I may even throw in a little persuasion, information, and entertainment. Just for good measure.
Oh to be one of the chosen: The blessed MLKs of the world. The Gandhis, the Mother Teresas. It must be such a comfort to know, inherently, what you want to do, what you must do. My dad told me recently that he knew, when he was only six-years-old, that he wanted to be a fisherman when he grew up. And, luckily for him, he did. For a while. Until the fishing could no longer pay the bills. Then, like so many, he tucked his dream away, and settled into life as a family-man. Oh, his true self would emerge from time to time: summer vacations at Pillar Point when he'd get in two fishing excursions a day, or early on Saturday mornings when he'd go fishing with my Grandpa. But come Sunday evening, that part of himself would get tucked into the closet along with his fishing poles and tackle boxes.
Despite her short time on this earth, my eight-year-old has been telling me for years that she is going to work with animals when she grows up. As a vet, or a wildlife biologist. And because I know her so well, I, wholeheartedly, see this dream becoming a reality. So why is it that she, and my dad, and those like them, know so early on which path in life to take, while the rest of us struggle? Or is it just me? Me and my unemployed idealism with too much time on our hands.
When I started this post (weeks ago) I initially thought I'd wrap it up by saying something about how I'll use this blog as a means of exploring. Searching for my purpose, my true calling, if you will. Because I know there's still more to come for me. More than washing dishes, folding laundry, and making peanut butter sandwiches. But then I read Jessie Knadler's book, "Rurally Screwed; My Life Off the Grid With the Cowboy I Love," a hilarious memoir about a thirty-something New Yorker who gave up the life she knew and loved in the city to become a chicken-farming-wife in rural Virginia. Becoming this new version of herself had many challenges and at times she felt extreme discontent. Eventually, though, she realized that she needed to stop "looking outside myself for happiness and contentment."*
Her words hit me like a slap in the face. And I'm so annoyed with myself for not coming up with them on my own. For they seem so simple, so obvious. Apparently, I am living proof that you CAN over think things. But she's right. I do need to stop looking for fulfillment outside of myself. Deep down, in my heart, I know who I am, what I am. And it doesn't matter if, to the world, it looks like I'm just a dish-washing, stay-at-home mama.
So I've decided, for now, that writing this blog isn't going to help me find my purpose, it will BE my purpose. My job, if you will. The job that will give me a place to go everyday, to write freely. The job that will allow me to question, to record, to commentate. (Not a bad gig, despite the crappy pay) So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to ramble on about my thoughts, my life with two amazing kids, one bicycle-building husband, and one way-too-hairy-hound-dog, because, sometimes, life just isn't always as Easy As PIE. And, who knows, I may even throw in a little persuasion, information, and entertainment. Just for good measure.
Keep on keeping on--
S-
**totally stolen from Jessie Knadler's book,
"Rurally Screwed; My Life Off the Grid With the Cowboy I love."
S-
**totally stolen from Jessie Knadler's book,
"Rurally Screwed; My Life Off the Grid With the Cowboy I love."
No comments:
Post a Comment