Passions, Part 3 (and Final)

Passions, Part 3 (Third and Final)


I am not sure if this “series” has been as much self-introspection as self-immolation. The intent was to present questions, generate ideas, and, hopefully, come up with a dream, a vision, and a light at the beginning of the path. I am looking for something from the universe, I guess: direction, guidance, clarification, and some clue as to what I am supposed to be doing with my life. Oh, and how to keep a roof over my head and food on the table while I’m at it.

Before I begin, however, a small digression. I have mentioned how much I enjoy playing the piano. Usually, I lean towards New Age type instrumentals, because they suit me with their minor key tendencies, flowing harmonies, and graceful movements. But this week, I went back to my “roots”. Physically, I was able to get in a little extra practice this week, so I picked some lightly challenging classical pieces for church today, and I think I pulled it off with just a few missed notes and wrong keys, hopefully not too noticeable. The pieces I picked were: Rondino by Antonio Diabelli for the Prelude, Musetta’s Song (from “La Boheme”) by Giacomo Puccini for the “Dollar” Offering, Für Elise (For Elise) by Beethoven for the Offertory, and Rondo-Valse by Muzio Clementi for the Postlude.

But all this piano talk makes me think of singing. I used to love to sing. Not that I was all that good, but I enjoyed it, and in the privacy of my own home I could belt out Cabaret’s “Maybe This Time” or My Fair Lady’s “I Could Have Danced All Night”. I enjoyed singing in my high school’s choir, participating in school talent shows and the Senior Class musicals (such as Bye-Bye Birdie and The Music Man). My mom even paid for a year’s worth of classical training, not that it did any good. I didn’t have faith in my own ability to think that it was worth pursuing, so I didn’t. But those days of even casual singing are over. Several years ago, I had surgery to have a benign tumor removed. The tumor was wrapped around my vocal chords, and in the process of removing the tumor, a nerve to my vocal chords was severed, and I lost the ability to sing. My vocal range, never really impressive (I was a mediocre second soprano), is now about five notes hovering around middle C.

Theatre is something else I really enjoy both onstage and off, as a participant and as a spectator. I have been involved in community theatre, off and on, for several years, beginning with children’s theatre. Again, I never really had enough confidence in my own ability to really consider a serious pursuit in theatre. Besides, the tall blondes always got the good parts, even when I was twelve.

As an adult, I spent more time backstage than on, and while I really enjoyed the camaraderie of the theatre crowd, again, I never felt like I belonged. These people knew theatre. They understood it. They were quick, clever, witty people.

Again, I wonder when and where these seeds of disconnection and discontent were planted and what encouraged it to grow inside of me. My mother said, more than once, she wished she had never read me fairy tales. Was that it? Did I honestly believe in the “happily ever after” and nothing else would satisfy me? Was I now allowed to dream? Was I told, too often, or even ever, that things were beyond my reach and that I should just settle? I don’t know. I don’t have any concrete memories of growing up, but I do know my parents loved me and did the best they could. (In fact, they are much better parents than I turned out to be). But, most of my childhood memories are not spontaneous; rather, they are triggered by conversations with family or by seeing photographs, so I can’t say with any conviction that my shortcomings are by nurture and environment rather than genetic inheritance. (My younger brother, and only sibling, has been, by far, more successful than me in everything – make of that what you will.)

With theatre, though, once I am caught up in the thrill of the performance, I really enjoy(ed) myself. Whether I was onstage as “Samantha” in Uncommon Women & Others or “Molly” in Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, or backstage as props, stage manager, lighting, even working the box office didn’t matter.

I have not been involved in any kind of theatre for many, many years. However, since moving to southern Oregon in 2004, I have had the opportunity to see so much wonderful theatre, from the acclaimed Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland to the fantastic shows done by a small, semi-professional company called Camelot. And this summer, my youngest son is participating in his first musical and I am enjoying a bit of the backstage life again, working in the costume room (on papier-mâché masks – I don’t sew!) and in the greenroom helping to supervise costume changes. While it’s not making me any money, it is fun to be out and involved in something again.

Last, but certainly not least, is my love of reading. I have loved to read, according to my mom, since before I could read. She has a photograph of me as an infant, lying on my back in the middle of my parents’ bed, holding an opened paperback book in my hands and staring at it intently.

You would be hard-pressed to find me without a book in my hand even now, sometimes two or three (one for upstairs, one for downstairs, and one for the car!). For several years, my parents owned an independent bookstore, new books in front and used books in back, and it was the most wonderful place in the world. I probably didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have and now, years later, I regret they had to sell it when they did.

Reading is probably my one true passion, but I haven’t figured out yet how to make any money at it.

So there you have it: me in a nutshell. Now, if I could just figure out how to crack that nut and get out of there! But even if I could get out, I have this strange feeling that I’d still be lost in the woods with no idea how to find my way home.

Any guides out there, please feel free to apply!


© Melanie Turner
August 2, 2009

Passions, Part 2

Passion, Part 2

I have often wondered whether there isn’t something missing inside of me, some inherent genetic defect, or mis-wired DNA which gives me the dream but not the drive, the hope but not the ambition. Do I just have some kind of latent laziness gene?

It is all well and good to say that anyone can achieve anything, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true anymore. Some people are more predisposed to success and achievement. I want, but I’m not willing. Why is that? Where does the willingness – and passion – to work for something, toward something, to the exclusion of all else, come from? And can I find it at this stage of the game? Even if I were to identify that undying passion, if I don’t have the wherewithal (ability, resources, money) to pursue it … how do I make my dreams come true if I don’t have the first idea what the first step should be?

I used to like my job, but I can’t say I was ever passionate about it. I mean, who ever heard of anyone being passionate about insurance? But I took pride in doing my job well, becoming as knowledgeable as I could about all aspects of my job, and being someone my boss could depend upon: having a good work ethic, a good reputation, worked well with others (the ubiquitous team player), and a loyal company employee. Fortunately, I never worked for anyone where my personal ethics were called into question. Still, when the company’s final numbers were crunched, none of this meant a thing.

I had set a modest goal income-wise. I wanted to be making $50,000 by the time I turned 50. I really didn’t think that was asking for much, but I felt that if my income “equaled” my “age”, I would have achieved some kind of success career-wise. I came close, within a couple of hundred dollars, when I was unexpectedly laid off at the age of 52. Now, my income – from unemployment – is less than half my previous take-home pay. And no health insurance to boot. (Fortunately, general good health has prevailed in the past 11 months – knock on wood!)

But like so many others, our savings account has been rapidly depleted, vacation plans have been cancelled, and belt-tightening has become the rule of thumb. I have had to swallow my pride on more than one occasion to ask for help from friends, food banks, and local charitable organizations.

The fact that I haven’t been able to find another job in almost a year hasn’t done much for my feelings of self-worth. I would love to find a job which would fulfill my passions – if I knew what that was. I keep looking, sending out resumes and hoping.

Still, this doesn’t solve the dilemma of identifying that passion which we all should have, right?

Years ago, I got hooked on making jewelry after taking a class at a local bead store. At one time, I even tried to start up my own home business making earrings, bracelets, necklaces. I spent so much time – and money – at bead stores, bead shows, on eBay, stocking up on inventory which now sits in a closet because I don’t have the space to work. Really. Our house is so small we don’t even have room for a kitchen table. Plus, the fine detail work of stringing beads and fixing fasteners takes a toll on my fingers and wrists. I suppose I should just try to sell the entire inventory I have accumulated over the years, taking up space I really don’t have anyway.

I think I love horseback-riding. I know I like horses. I never rode as a child, mostly, I guess, because my mother told me she was afraid of horses, and the opportunity never presented itself. The closest I came to riding as a child was being posed on the back of a horse, at roughly age three, with my younger brother, for a press photo for our local rodeo and stampede.

A few years ago, when we still lived in California, I actually owned a horse for a brief time. She was an older, docile horse, a retired trail horse used to riding a circuit. I would ride her around the corral, and she’d stop at the gate, without fail, after every turn around. Every once in awhile I’d ride her down the street a couple of blocks or across the back field, but there really wasn’t a place to ride her openly or freely.

A couple of years ago, my husband found a horse for me to ride. We drove up to his friend’s place on the hill to where the horse was kept. I had to stand on a table to mount her, because she was so tall, and there was no saddle, so I rode bareback. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have had a problem with this, but the trail was up and down a hilly path, and every time I clenched my knees to keep from sliding off her back, she’d take that as a signal to stop. It was not a very pleasant ride, and I have not been on a horse since. I’ve thought about going to one of those horse trail places, but the cost – especially since I’m still unemployed – is prohibitive. Besides, I am a little afraid that I’d fall off or get thrown because I don’t really know what I’m doing. So, I don’t.

Is it just plain old-fashioned “fear of failure”, that catch-all for those of us who can’t seem to make a success of anything? Instead of whining about it, why can’t I just pick myself up by my bootstraps and make a go of it? What is stopping me?


(to be continued yet again)