For a week I have been trying to figure out what to say for this blog post. Tonight, I still have no idea what will transpire. I sat for ten minutes…maybe fifteen, just staring at the screen’s blank, white page. I am struggling. I have to discuss my passion. I don’t have a passion.
I asked my husband last week what he thought my passion was. He looked at me blankly at first, and then gave me a couple answers that made me raise my eyebrows. I’m not passionate about anything. Now him—he’s passionate about action, movement, doing. If the activity keeps him moving, he loves it. It doesn’t matter if it’s building a shed, working on a car, taking care of his patients, or doing the dishes. He loves to move. My husband is not someone who gets bored very often. In six years of marriage, I think he’s complained of boredom three times, all of which he jumped into action almost immediately.
I wish I had his drive and motivation for something, anything.
I remember watching a TedTalk a while back and the topic was on working with your passion. The speaker suggested that we not find a job or career in a field that we are passionate about, rather, we find a job or career and become passionate about it. If I apply that advice to my real life, the passions I have in front of me are taking care of my family, driving, and soul searching.
But are those real passions? They’re not really productive. I mean, I take care of my family because I love them and that’s just what you do when you have a family. I would take a bullet for any of them, from my husband to my baby boy. Every breath I breathe is inhaled and exhaled for my family because without them, I am nothing. They simply keep me going.
I don’t really consider driving a real passion anymore because the roads I drive only lead me from point A to point B. There’s never deviation anymore, and that’s sad. I used to jump in my car, start it up, crank the radio, and just roll whichever way the wind was blowing. I never worried about getting lost or where I’d end up. All I cared about was the freedom to go where ever I wanted and the peace of mind I could find while navigating my internal compass. I used to love turning that radio up as loud as it could go and singing my head off on a two lane road somewhere in rural where ever. Now, I can’t even get my thoughts to be quiet long enough to hear the music being played.
That leaves me with soul searching. Again, is it really a passion? I feel like recently I’m constantly on a quest to figure out who I am, what I want, what I believe, what I feel, what I think. Every time I think I’ve regained my foundation, I trip in a metaphorical crack and have to start all over. I always thought that by the time I reached my current age, I would be somewhat set in my ways. Truth is, my mind can still be molded and sculpted, just as it could as a silly know-nothing teenager. My body is constantly tied up in knots from tension and stress, and I feel like if I could just figure myself out, the bricks would fall from my shoulders one after another after another.
I suppose that soul searching is my passion after all. It is what I chase, in various forms, on a constant basis, no matter what the outcome may be. I long for a spiritual awakening, a physical realization of my own body, mental clarity, and just a renewed sense of self. The chase. The chase. Always chasing, never catching. The chase is my passion.