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“Tell me, what is it you want to do with your one wild and precious life?” ~ Mary Oliver
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What a question.
Honestly, it’s the kind of question most of us can’t answer until we take stock of how far we’ve come. It’s the kind of question that needs pretext—some history and living before it can be answered fully.
In order to look forward we must look back.
I decided early on I would be funny. I remember telling jokes to my classmates in second grade. Years of reflection later, I know my humor was (and still is) a coping mechanism stemming directly from a traumatic experience. I like being the self-deprecating clown. I’ve got the chops, no doubt, but offering humor is the way I deal with stress, anxiety, and all my big emotions. My soul feeds off the laughter of others. I crave the good vibe attention and validation I receive when a witty quip lands. Slapstick soothes and stuffs me whole. If everyone is happy, I am happy too.
I knew I would be a survivor. Resilient. Notwithstanding all the coping mechanisms I employed (humor, a decades long eating disorder, avoidance), I always knew I would survive. Despite my feelings, I knew I’d just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and simply survive the world. Aside from carving out resolution (doing the work), there’s a lot of settling that happens throughout a lifetime. A lot of letting go. There are hills we’re willing to die on, and ones we just keep scaling. No matter, though, we always have choice. Most of us choose to stay and fight the good fight for happiness. I’ve done that, and the rewards have been monumental.
I am a worker. I get my work ethic from my parents. I watched my dad build a garage and create a giant vegetable garden from scratch, and work shifts in a factory every day to support us. I watched my mom leave the house at 7:15 a.m. to support us. They put us through college and helped pay for a happy, memory-filled childhood. Being someone who isn’t afraid to work is blessing. I have always felt (and still do) there is no job beneath me. I will always hustle my way through life, which is a notable skill. It requires grit. It’s an understanding that earning what we have makes the fruit sweeter. Laziness isn’t an option.
I married young and had some beautiful, talented babies. I am “mother,” and I am “wife.” This identity is the prevailing one.
I became a runner 10 years ago. I ran every day. I ran a million 5ks, some 10ks, and even a half marathon. I never liked running, so it fell off my cart. I had something to prove to myself, though, and I proved it. Now I’m a straight-up power walker and I like it a lot more. There is less pressure and more clarity. It’s easier on these old bones and muscles too. Exercise and fitness, while a central theme in my life, isn’t what I want to do.
I’ve always been a writer, but when the block hit and I ran out of things to write about, I decided to become a painter. A water colorist to be exact. This is my current creative outlet. It feeds my soul. Feeding the soul is the most important component to being and feeling happy. I am a “creative” as they say, and there’s nothing I can do about it except indulge.
I like to watch things grow. I like organization over chaos. I like a good list. I am an activist. I’m outspoken on social media.
Recently, in double-whammy fashion, two of my closest women friends lost their mothers. I’ve watched them grieve, and I’ve been there for them as a friend who is grieving alongside them. Being a supportive friend is one of the most substantial roles we play in our personal relationships. We must simply hold each other’s hands through it all. I am grateful beyond measure that my women friends, all of them, are amazing, loving people.
It has truly hit home that our years keep collecting, whether we find a purpose or not.
In the course of cobbling together this self-reflective piece, I’ve discovered I wear many hats. But wearing a hat is different from knowing what I really want to do with my one wild and precious life.
At 57 years old, I’m still struggling to figure out my purpose. Do you feel the same way? I think I’ve drawn the conclusion that maybe my human journey doesn’t really need a “purpose” to mean anything. Maybe just being alive and free-thinking is enough. Maybe realizing that time is fleeting—and living in the moment and savoring these present days that will someday be the “good old days”—is absolutely enough.
Maybe what I really want to do with my one wild and precious life is simply cherish it.
Even in a snowstorm, with no place to go and nothing to do, except shovel.
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