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)

Passions, Part 1

Am I an expert at anything? Nothing that I can think of really. I used to call myself, jokingly, a Jill-of-all-trades, but I never excelled at any one thing in particular.

What am I passionate about? I have spent a lifetime trying to figure this out. There are a lot of things I really enjoy doing, but nothing really lights my bonfire, if you know what I mean.

I enjoy baking and cooking, trying out new recipes, creating my own – even though I am an extremely picky eater. I used to enter recipe contests, and even won a couple. In fact, I won the very first contest I ever entered for Kraft Marshmallows, creating a $1,000 cheesecake with a home-made lemon curd topping. Another cheesecake, pumpkin this time, with a spun sugar garnish, brought me a third prize in a Decadent Dessert category.

But the past couple of years, the physical ailments associated with the fibromyalgia – joint pains, lower back pain, headaches, and so on – have taken away some of the joy of cooking.

I love playing the piano. I think I started lessons when I was about five and continued on for many years. But I wasn’t a serious student and didn’t want to take the time to learn the technical side. In fact, I usually only practiced to get out of other household chores such as washing the dishes.

I also struggled with memorization, disliked recitals, and never participated in any of the state competitions with my peers. I did go back for further lessons, in my twenties, and enjoyed the opportunity to learn more involved, intricate pieces. I remember my teacher, Mr. Pisani, saying, after one vigorous session with Beethoven’s Appassionata (Sonata in F minor, Opus 57) that people would have a hard time imagining this “mild-mannered secretary” (as I was then) playing with such intensity and depth.

Looking back at some of the pieces I played, oh so long ago, I wonder how I ever did it. The same pains which inhibit my ability to stand in the kitchen for long periods of time also inhibit my ability to sit at the keyboard and play. And my brain just doesn’t seem to compute music the same way. My fingers definitely don’t move as swiftly over the keys as they once did and complicated fingering patterns and rhythms sometimes leave me befuddled. Integrating the right hand with the left can also be quite a challenge now. I am, however, grateful to my church for allowing me to play during services on a regular basis, because it gives me an incentive to learn new and, oftentimes, more demanding pieces.

I love to write. Mostly poetry, introspective and self-aggrandizing, out of my recurring depression. I like to think of myself as an elegant writer, but don’t really think that my writing is anything special, certainly not up there with the likes of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Dorothy Parker, or contemporary poet Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, Louise Glück.

Even the poets who inhabit our local open mics intimidate me. Most have self-published chapbooks, springing from their innate self-confidence, or have been published by small, private presses. These are, for the most part, people who graduated with degrees in English Lit or similar majors, many obtaining Masters degrees, who became teachers, counselors, lawyers. I don’t feel that I belong in their world, and it holds me back. So mostly, I write for myself, and for the occasional kudo and pat on the back. I will say that a “well done” from my dad means more to me than anything and quite often brings me to tears.

I used to think I could write novels, or at least, I thought I wanted to. I guess, maybe, I still do. I just don’t think I have any interesting stories inside of me that are dying to get out. I have tried everything from mysteries to science fiction/fantasy, historical romance to spy thrillers – you name it. I have stacks and stacks and stacks of paper and notebooks to prove it. I have yet to finish one.

I take that back. In the sixth grade, I wrote a serialized mystery about a girl and a horse, and read a chapter over the school’s intercom every Friday. That, and the short stories I turned in for creating writing assignments from Junior High through community college were the only things I ever finished.

I guess I just don’t have the drive that other writers have. The need is there, but not the passion. At this point in my life, I’m not sure there’s enough spark left inside of me to light a passion, even if I could figure out what it was.

(to be continued)

© Melanie Turner
July 30, 2009