Where is the something
Where is the someone
That tells me why I live and die?
I have been listening to the musical “Hair” quite a bit lately as I’ve just auditioned (unsuccessfully, I’m sorry to say) for a regional production of the show. These lyrics, sung by Claude, a young American peace protester, as he wrestles with the decision over whether or not to go to Vietnam after being drafted, have struck a chord with me lately.
I never gave very much thought to what my life’s purpose was. I figured that it would become clear, eventually. Now, I find myself months away from 30, and not very sure where the something or the someone is. I am spending more and more time reflecting on how one even begins the search.
I should clear up the “someone” part first. I am an insecure person, generally. I don’t feel particularly smart, beautiful, talented, or well-liked. But somehow, by some miracle (and probably more than my fair share of mistakes along the way), I learned the lesson long ago that a “someone” couldn’t be my reason for living, the validation of my existence. I have always known deep down in my heart that a person, a relationship, could not give my life meaning, and that it was better to be alone than to be with the wrong person. That for all my “spinster sister” jokes, I am OK alone, just me. Sure, it would be lovely and wonderful to find the right person. But if I don’t find them? I will be fine. Disappointed, but whole. I have seen friends completely devalue every other part of their lives because of the absence of that “someone:” friends, careers, family, health - I have seen people literally shrug at these gifts because they did not have a relationship with which to define themselves. I feel very grateful to be so sure of myself, in this respect. I will never be desperate, I will never settle, and I will never compromise my values in order to be “loved.”
It’s the “something” that is really getting to me lately. I feel a bit like a jack of all trades, and a master of none, and this is becoming increasingly frustrating. I feel like I’m trying to match a piece to many different puzzles and never quite finding the right fit.
I know I’m a good lawyer. But I think that I might lack the drive and passion for the profession to really drive me to the top of my field. I do a good job, and I do what I need to. But I leave it at that.
I love to perform. I must have some skills, to have had the chances that I have had to be on stage. But, at the moment, the opportunities to sing, to be heard, just aren’t there, which makes me wonder if I’ve hit the “glass ceiling” of my talent: that I’m someone who has a nice voice, is an okay actor, and should realize this and stop overreaching or dreaming for more.
I enjoy writing. But again, I don’t know that I’m particularly insightful about anything other than my own life (and even there, sometimes the point eludes me). I certainly lack that spark of imagination that compels me to sit down and write the next great Canadian novel. I laugh at the pretentiousness of the odd poem I attempt to write. So, how far can the writing go?
I’m good at picking out pretty things. I have an eye for colour, can arrange furniture well, know how to build a stylish wardrobe, can spot a hot shoe a mile away, and can accessorize like a hot damn. But I can’t sew, or draw, or sketch a design, or explain why I make the choices I do.
I am a voracious reader, a theatre hound, an enthusiastic film goer, a pop culture savant in many ways. Nobody can beat me at “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” or “Finish the Lyrics.” But I lack the insight to really be an effective commentator on these things - my opinions just aren’t well-formulated or intelligent enough to forge a career in criticism or editorial writing.
All these unmatched puzzle pieces add up to...what exactly? What purpose? I can’t see the big picture that these disparate pieces form. I suppose I would have made a fabulous Renaissance woman - I mean, a real Renaissance woman. What Jane Austen would call “a woman of accomplishments.” But how does being relatively good but not astonishingly gifted at a number of things translate to one path I should take in life, one passion to pursue? I can’t simply shop, read, throw great parties and give good conversation (although that would be nice). Hence the frustration.
Would I trade being pretty good at so many things for being really, really good at just one thing? Sometimes, I think it might be easier to have fewer options. Now, I’m not asking, like Claude, whether I should live or die. I’m melodramatic, not suicidal. But the living part is certainly easier when you know what you’re living for, what your purpose is.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Danielle. Whenever you’re ready to let me know about that whole life’s purpose thing...well, I’d appreciate an answer. Not “THE” answer. I know a lot of people have been asking for THAT. Naw, I’d just like my own personal answer. Even a hint at this point would be welcome.