a small midwinter rant

The choices I make—am I timid, lazy, or shrewd? Why is it that so often my behavior could fit any one of those categories? You’d think I would always know which I was being—but it’s just not so. I have an itchy feeling that it’s not usually the last—at least not nearly as often as I hope it is. Shrewd is just fine, but whatever I’m about, I sure don’t want to be lazy and scared.


How can I change this? The easy way out is to assume that all I need is some grand, all-consuming goal. Some mountain to climb, some passion to pursue. Then I could have a yardstick with which to measure myself. And isn’t that what we all crave? Solid proof that we’re on it, that we haven’t missed the bus?

But I have a sneaking suspicion that life isn’t all about what I do. It’s who I am while I’m doing it. Maybe I’ve said that before, I don’t know. If so, it’s worth saying again. It doesn’t really matter if I’m an editor or a skydiver or a shopkeeper. It doesn’t really matter if I’m married or single or the mother of six. There is no bus to catch. Who I am is deeper than that. Who I am is not what I do—or don’t do. I cannot find fulfillment in simple action. Action is the effect, not the cause.

Alas! Life would make so much more sense if I could live it that way—if I could dial in to my one concrete thing, like a surfer catching the ultimate wave just right and riding on home. But it’s not. I’m young(ish) and quite regularly dumb but I at least know that. Life is not that shallow.

But I’m not about to take that as a reason to sit back on my can and just focus on being. (Perhaps with some chanting and a candle?) No way. Such an inward, selfish focus is equally no good.

There is no excuse for not rolling up your sleeves and digging into this crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd thing called life. We were built to do. But—pardon the sentence construction—doing is what we do, not who we are.

So who am I?

And does it matter if I know? Some days I really really think so, and some days…I do not. No one ever truly figures themselves out, no matter how much we navel-gaze. I don’t think we can. We’re not supposed to. We are the creature, not the creator.

And that, bottom line, is who I am. I am a child of God. I’m his crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd daughter. Everything else is peripheral. He tells me not to worry so much about whether I’m timid or lazy or shrewd. If I listen to him, I’ll be just fine. More than fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can probably do fine all on my own.

But I don’t want fine. I want freakin’ awesome. And that is not to be found in the messages the world tries to sell me. I could be rich and skinny and madly in love and still—in ashes.

Is that my whole point, here? Maybe. If I must have a point, that’s as good as any.