Hi folks,
In November, I briefly chatted with a man who was looking forward to soon becoming a grandparent. During the conversation, he reflected on the experience of raising his daughter and mentioned casually how mysterious it was that the way infant children behaved often foretold so much about their behavior as adults.
The comment reminded me of an idea that came across in so many books I read this past year. These books sought to explore ways to find our own gifts, strengths, or natures. One story that repeatedly comes up in these books is of adults losing track of the work or activities they once found fulfilling, those that they naturally took up or gravitated toward as small children.
This loss accumulates in small, gradual steps. Since the motives behind each step are generally positive, what is being lost in the process is difficult to identify as it happens. It might involve trying to 'fit in', perhaps with a community or an organization. Perhaps a hobby is put aside, just once, to fulfill an obligation. One might choose during a conversation to withhold a feeling or conviction out of concern for irritating or offending a sensitive colleague. Or, one might continue on a set path because they feel trapped by past choices or wish to avoid disrupting an agreed upon schedule or lifestyle.
Annie Dillard writes in A Writing Life that 'how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.' Over time, little shifts of behavior, repressions of belief, and compromises with joy accumulate to write the emptiest chapters in our life story. These life sentences describes the identities that imprison our natural selves. Over time, we find that the past we so energetically justify barely represents the interests of our forward-looking souls.
We do this because challenging our own identities is daunting. How do you start down a path that might lead to an admission that you were untrue to yourself?
An overhaul of identity is almost an act of betrayal. It is a big project, seemingly pointless, and damn near impossible to start. Luckily, there are quite a few books out there that offer advice to those who suspect something is not quite right with their lives yet remain hesitant or unsure about what to do or how to get started.
I found one piece of advice very helpful in these books. It challenged me to think about a time in life where there was no pressure to act in any way except that in accord with my own nature. Childhood is suggested as a good starting point for such a thought exercise but any situation where I felt totally at home in a place or group would do. In these situations, what came naturally to me? What did I gravitate to?
In my past experiences, I found the common thread of writing. I remember creating short newsletters as a little kid, reporting on news equal parts real and imaginary, articles supplemented by the least helpful illustrations ever produced in colored pencil.
Progress through the school system saw me take further advantage of opportunities to write. I produced nonsense in the form of songs about having two left feet or historical fiction about Colonel Bud Light, the forgotten hero who may or may not have raced George Washington across the Delaware and convinced the Hessians to get drunk at Princeton.
As my interests and activities ranged from the practical to the creative, I continued to sprinkle in attempts to harness the power of the written word. The Norwood Fantasy Football League, started in junior high with a few friends, remains today a beneficiary of my newsletters, season previews, and summary articles. Who could forget the piece (the NFFL as 2010 World Cup teams) in which I compared a league member to North Korea due to his non-participation in the trade market?
College saw my first attempts at web design, again using the fantasy football league as a starting point. I also took writing classes- 'studying' freelance journalism and 'writing' short fiction- as one-off electives. I have no idea why I ignored those who suggested I try writing for the school paper, no idea at all. Perhaps I felt that I was already writing enough, missing the point of such suggestions- that I should write more.
Entry into the professional world saw the return of a familiar progression. As my comfort level expanded, the number crunching for which I was initially hired gave way to quarterly participation in the company newsletter, writing emails to replace my team's in-person meetings, and penning proper performance reviews instead of lazily scoring attributes on a numbered rubric. Each idea I put into words delayed my acknowledgment of the most obvious thing- I should write more.
The spring and summer of 2015 saw my mother's illness, hospitalization, and eventual passing. I consolidated the routines of my daily life to provide as much support as I could. This left time for my preferred hobbies of reading and running at the expense of others such as learning the keyboard or exploring the world of cooking.
And yet, as I focused the allocation of my free time into core activities, I once again started writing. I bought a notebook and kept a journal, my first one ever. On the train, in the cafe, at bedside, for once I wrote more.
One year ago, I found myself again mulling over what I should do with my time. I did this thinking a little more seriously than in the past. After all, would I get another chance to think so thoroughly about my remaining time again? And so I took the first step of the advice found in many books like A Writing Life and thought about what parts of my nature I'd left on the backburner of my life thus far.
I excavated my experience, followed the progression outlined above, and inched toward the obvious conclusion. It was not until I re-read my cathartic journal from the summer of 2015 that I recognized the reality- I should write more.
And so, here we are. It's been a year. I've written a lot. It's unclear what I've accomplished in that process. But, as always, the occasional positive signs strengthen the conviction- I should write more.
I'm looking forward to another year.
Thanks for reading, all this time.
Tim
