"What really matters to you? What is the difference that you really want to make [in life], for whom and why"? Apparently, answering these questions are the key to helping me down the pathway, my pathway. At least so says, Eric Russell, my lifework coach and personal performance strategist extraordinaire.
Indeed . . . if they remain unanswered or, even worse if, I cannot answer them, I will not be able to get myself off "the dock". You know, the dock of life, the same one I'm so comfortable hanging out on. It's hard not to panic even as I transcribe these questions for this entry from the sheet of yellow lined paper used to hastily scribble my homework onto during our last session. These questions feel weighty, too weighty. Honestly, I've no idea how to begin to tackle them.
My what feels nebulous. What really matters is not a precise what, for whom and a why but, simply a desire for making a difference any sort of difference at all. It's a feeling of wanting to be a Miss Rumphius of sorts and "make the world a more beautiful place". To leave a noticeable mark, a positive stamp, or footprint that may be remembered, felt or carried on into the future. It's not about fame. There are no delusions there. Just Google making a difference and you'll find tons of information on individuals that have made a difference who are not rich or famous. The Christian Science Monitor has a whole section devoted to acknowledging this "unheralded community". Those are the people I admire. I'm interested in being one of those guys. They've found something that they're passionate about. That seems to be the key.
And, therein might be the problem.
For much of my life I have felt bereft of a passion. Surrounded by multi-talented sisters and brothers who could sing, play musical instruments, be top athletes, write and draw had a crippling effect on. I didn't compete and wouldn't compete. For me, the "competition" was over before it began. I became an expert at giving up. My best game was being loud, annoying and acting goofy. Driving my family up the wall or cracking them grabbed their attention. It made me stand out. No one else in the family was doing that.
It wasn't until my thirties and motherhood that a fortuitous stumble into the world of picture books ignited a tiny flame. To be fair, Isaac --my son, born ready to explore and curious beyond all imaginings, is entirely responsible. Besides contributing to a blissful whiling away of the hours, books satisfied two essential needs. 1. respite for a weary mother and 2. "food" to placate an insatiable young brain. Trips to the library could not be frequent enough. We regularly liberated the town library of large portions of their picture book collection. No pile was too large for my Isaac. He had the patience of Job and the attention span of a scholar when it came to sitting and listening to stories. Needless to say Isaac is the sole reason I became a school librarian. Getting paid to read picture books and have summers off to be with my kids was the best ruse I'd ever conceived.
Truthfully however, the trick is on me. Those endless hours of reading to Isaac, then Mary Clare and the bundle of sweet students that followed, became the kindling beneath a growing pile of brush, the brush I'm so fond of gathering. My pile is high and it has been lit.
So, I'd be a bold faced liar if I claimed to be passionless. When it comes to reading I'm like a Born Again Christian, saved by an almighty and a rabid enthusiast about spreading the word.
That's my seed for sowing, my passion to be channeled. Which direction will it take, The Early Bird Cafe, Putney Central School's seasoned Librarian, America's next budding picture book author?
Just how far off the dock will I leap?
I wish I had something to leap towards. Lolo
ReplyDelete