Life purpose

So, I've turned another year older recently and in a moment of existential concern, shall we say, I googled "life purpose" and came upon and eventually tried this.  In short, I sat down and guessed at my life's purpose until tears rolled down my face.

If you are inclined to do such a thing yourself (are we friends and if not, can we be?) I offer this addendum to his instructions:  Twenty minutes, my left pinky toe.  Give yourself a good hour or more.  I feel I am pretty open to this kind of thing and more emotionally aware than average and that's about how long it took me.  Granted, I took more time with word choice than others might (or should).

Another tip that would have saved me some time (which may or may not be applicable for you) was that none of the guesses that described my effect on others was right.  It couldn't be about something that was beyond my agency, so I eventually figured out I had to focus on what I could do or offer - not on how that would be received or change anything.

Otherwise, my experience was similar to the description.  A few guesses got a swell of emotion or even a brief sting of tears - and those I starred and eventually incorporated into the final answer.  I thought I had it around guess #80, but then when that didn't make me cry, I ran right into that wall of exasperation, which I powered through simply by making silly guesses in new directions.  Then out of the blue, I struck on what became the opening bit of My Purpose In Life, added it to #80, and down came the tears.  My final guess was #92.

I can't believe I'm going to tell you this.  But, well, in case I don't live to live out this purpose, I want it recorded for posterity.  So here it is in all its wordy (but how could my life's purpose be anything but?) glory:

In the face of an unfathomable universe, in which we are all constantly beckoned by our loneliness and isolation, my purpose in this life is to honor and trust the true yearnings of my wildish* generous heart:  to love with unquestioning joy and celebration; to see and by seeing create majesty and meaning; to nurture the embers burning in all I meet; and - with all the juice of my being and talents - to create artful expressions (to include Great Writings!) that will be my truth in the world.


Easy, eh?  No prob.  Now all I have to do is make sure all of my goals for the rest of my life are aligned with my purpose.

Heh.

Expect more earnest blogging.  And possibly somehow even MORE lyrics about coming together to make light in a dark, dark world.  :)


*In case you didn't know, "wildish" is a term I like to use that (in my mind, anyway) means "of the wilderness" as opposed to the kind of wild that is maniacal or ferocious.

List

oil pastels

striped apples

new leaves that are wings taking first flight

the world keeps shapeshifting beyond these beige walls and fluorescent lights

a tiny bird with a song like 100 pebbles dropping all at once into 100 magic ponds

thoughts that unfurl completely

phone calls from my sister

nightswimming, rem

a finished story

overhauled overalls

a perfect meeting of talent and need

her problem is she's problematic

a daring move

there is no right decision, only one that reflects priorities

a summer picnic

satisfaction

friends singing harmonies on dreams

friends spontaneously showing up in town

rocksitting

orange salamander

this is grace, this is bliss

My hours

I want to tell you about the torrent of ideas, issues and emotions that have stormed my horizon just today. (But I won't because you've got your own.)  I want to tell you because I'm thinking a lot about this thing someone said to me about adulthood - how it's a matter of realizing you only get twenty-four hours a day and some things you will do and some you will not and the things you choose to fit into a day define you.  

I want to be honest with you because I want to be honest with myself.  Of the things I believe deep down define me, very few are currently making it into my twenty-four hours.  And this is more and more troubling.

I'm a writer.  Did you know that?

I told you?

Well.  Technically a writer is one who writes and, well... this is pretty much it, kiddos.  I've got this and I've got a (lovingly & generously designed) database full of snippets and ideas.  It's meant to be a virtual library of my work, but right now it's pretty much just a sieve.  And while I'm grateful every idea doesn't wash down the drain, I am also starting to feel a bit panicky about the fact that I'm more of an idea-er than a writer.

Why'm I telling you this?  

So that it is told.

Tomorrow I go into the woods alone for approximately ninety-six hours of silence.  For wilderness.  For dirt and rain and wind.  For glorious, glorious silence.  Last June I went on a similar retreat for two days and didn't speak the whole time - well, I slipped to greet a dog.  I didn't want him to think I wasn't happy to see him, so the sounds just popped out of my mouth.  But I felt restored by those two days in a deep, fundamental way.  This year, I'm upping the dosage.  For someone who absorbs as much as I do and who is as busy as I seem to be all twenty-four hours of each of my days and who spends hours and hours each week with live rock music, silence is a balm.

I will be silent.

I will be alone.

I will be unwebbed.

I will be unplugged.

I think I will probably even bury all time-telling implements in the ground (with a treasure map for when I have to leave again) and live by the sun and the full moon.

I have no idea what conclusions I will come to, if any, while I am out there.  But I know I will hear my heartbeat in my ears.

First blossoms

did we lose faith under all that snow?

death:  the unseen.

spring:  the unveiling of shapes that were forming all along.

winter:  a factory of renewal.

are you looking for heaven?

are you letting your heart melt, too?

(will you be at Church of Boston tonight at 8pm to celebrate with us?)

March is on

Well, my mother was worried about me, so I'm back with the good news.

Spring has come!  It's light when I leave the office, birds (other than my neighbor's roosters) are singing me awake, allergies have kicked in, and new plans are in the works.

It seems the upshot of giving up your optimism is that you can clearly see the problem areas and begin to own them.  The upshot of giving up your forbearance is that urgency and yes-saying give you the motivation to do what must be done to make changes.  (What "this blue heaven" is all about, really - in spite of "optimistic" as a too-common descriptor of our music.)

Seasonal cycles, like so many other natural cycles, give us that:  growth, decline, death and renewal.  I'm beginning to trust that each is necessary, each has its own offering, and each will always make way for the next.  February's gift is to wipe clean your slate (even if it feels like you're being knocked off your feet).  March's gift is a clean slate to start drawing up new plans!

And so I am.

And you'll see the results, I have no doubt.

I'd stop

Because I read in two random places today that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing every time and expecting a new result.  And because I'm working on a list of all the things I will do differently.

Next Time

by Mary Oliver

Next time what I'd do is look at

the earth before saying anything.  I'd stop

just before going into a house

and be an emperor for a minute

and listen better to the wind

or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether

blame or praise or just passing time,

I'd watch the face, how the mouth

has to work, and see any strain, any

sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth

bracing itself and soaring, the air

finding every leaf and feather over

forest and water, and for every person

the body glowing inside the clothes

like a light.