Meaning in This
January 20, 2009
Sometimes I try to figure out what blogging is supposed to be about. Or what it’s supposed to be about for me. I have two boys. This was supposed to just talk about my wanderings about, figuring out life with them. But then I write about random things here & there, what I made for dinner, or whatever, and I can feel so inadequate. Even as a public record of my thoughts, what am I putting out there? Anything interesting? It’s interesting to me, but sometimes I think I am doing it wrong. I leave out gaping holes from my experience, not wanting to splatter across this blog the incredible struggle I can barely manage to process myself, especially since this is not a blog that’s unknown to family & friends. Besides, the subject matter is too shocking to even go there.
But I am moving on, and let me tell you, I love moving on. Especially when it’s done right.
Then I think- am I hiding behind some surface? What do I even project here?
It’s a little unsettling to look at what I’ve written over the past year, and think- where’s the continuity? Where’s the purpose? What’s the theme here? Oh yeah, it’s just my life. Am I supposed to have a theme for this? Am I supposed to have a coherent theme for my life? But then again, if it really was just a diary, there’d be a whole lot more ugly truth in it. Oh well.
I read around at other blogs and it seems like a lot of us are trying to figure out who we are, place our legitimacy, and get a gauge on the direction where we should head. As if our lives are not legitimate in themselves. As if the people that we love, or the kids that we care for each day, are not enough to say Yes! You! You are Important! But really, I am looking for something, too. I wish I could point at a one-woman art show and say- Look at my work! Or a published book. Aha! Genius! But it’s a little silent. I was a born hoping. I still know in my heart my life is bigger than what I see right in front of me. I seem to make a difference in my friends’ lives. And of course my family’s. And in the end, what do I want to show for my life? Accomplishments, or to be able to look people in the eye and know that I mattered to them? I know the answer to that question. But I can’t help it, I want more.
But then again, when I read about other women trying to find their way through life, be it through work or relationships, whatever it is, I guess I do find solace in knowing that my desire for meaning & legitimacy & affirmation–this is a part of the human experience. And then I find comfort in knowing that I am feeling what women often feel. And then I don’t feel alone. And then it feels okay to struggle to figure out who I am & not be there yet. And then, actually, I kind of like that. I like being unfinished. I like that I can look forward to being 40, 50, beyond, and knowing that I am not done yet. I think maybe I can put less pressure on myself at that age if I can start even now, knowing that it’s OK to not have arrived. It’s okay to just be living my life and to have unrealized dreams. Because that means I still have dreams left. And it’s not over. And I am alive. And that’s amazing. Being human is amazing.
And I’m not even close to being done.