Looking for the Thing

There is no passion to be found playing small – in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living. — Nelson Mandela

I hate quotes like this.

It sounds great. Pump-your-fist-in-the-air great. My whole life it seems I’ve been looking for it – passion. I have been seeking that bliss that I’m supposed to follow, groping for higher ground on which to stand, looking for cause and commitment.

And I have supported – and will continue to support — everything from Black Lives Matter to spaying cats. But to be frank I’ve never felt particularly passionate about anything. At least I don’t think so. And the fact that I don’t know if I have, kinda tells me that I haven’t.

I’ve been interested in things. There are certainly things I like to do, and knowledge I like to acquire. But passion? None of it feels like that. I don’t feel on fire with the kind of energy that drives me through my days and demands that I do the thing. I wanted to write, and I have. For a while I was really absorbed in writing novels. But even then, it was like something I was trying out, like the story that I was obligated to write down because it was being fed to me. It was some kind of assignment. But passion? No. So all my life I’ve just been interested.

And interest has taken me a long way. But now as I enter into elderhood, interest seems so lightweight. Aren’t we supposed to have a life’s work? Something that nudges the world toward a lost paradise? Something that elevates and liberates and lasts after we have stopped breathing?

What is that thing?