Call it a cliché, but I’m going to start with another quote. Though this one won’t be nearly so contrived as a few lyrics from a little-known John Mayer song. This one was given to me by my wonderful friend Christina a while back, and it's the longest-remaining quote on my Facebook profile, and has always resonated with me. I no longer remember where I first heard it, but for years now, it’s had me pondering the future of my life.
“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is more people who have come alive.” –Howard Thurman
From the time I graduated middle school, I’ve been trying to seek out my passions. It’s a romantic vision, I know – finding something we’re truly passionate about. We all wonder what life would be like if we could only be passionate about what we’re doing, and we’re all so worried that we’ll wake up when we’re 50 and realize that we still haven’t found it.
I’m no exception. I’ve gone through so many phases that I lost count long ago (God bless my family for encouraging me through them all), and I begin each one with the enthusiasm of a teenager with a new crush. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what I’ve been looking for. Maybe this is what everyone’s been talking about. The possibility consumes me, and I dive in headlong.
First there was photography. Four years in high school – to the point where a great deal of my fondest memories from those years took place in the darkroom. The beginnings of some of my best friendships. My interest in jazz music. My first kiss. Anyone who knows me can attest that taking pictures remains one of my most avid hobbies, but slowly, over the years, it retreated from my hopes of it being a real passion.
I wanted something more. I wanted to find something I was so sure of that few other things in life seemed like they mattered. As much as I love taking pictures, photography wasn’t it. So I kept searching. Three weeks in the canyons of southern Utah had a greater effect on me than just about anything else ever had. But the desert wasn’t a passion. I taught myself how to play a guitar my parents got me for my 16th birthday. I loved it, and learned a handful of my favorite songs – but the guitar wasn’t a passion, either.
As I moved through these phases, I became worried. Nothing was sticking. Years went by, and while I’d found a great many things that held my interest, I was terrified by the idea that I hadn’t found a single thing to which I was willing to devote my life. I saw my friends become doctors, lawyers and photographers, and as much as I wanted to have found the thing I knew I wanted to do – my calling – I hadn’t. It plagued me for years, until just recently, when a talk with the greatest friend I’ve known clued me into something I hadn’t thought about before.
Up until now, I’ve always thought that life’s passions would be paths we could follow, and that our job was to find those paths. I once thought it was photography, but then I realized I didn’t want to be a photographer for the rest of my life. I once thought it was cooking school and opening my own restaurant, but then I realized the career path wasn’t for me. I thought it was going to be an activity – something tangible that I could pour myself into without hesitation. Something I wouldn’t ever grow out of. What I hadn’t considered is that my real passion is something that’s been in my life all along.
My favorite parts of photography had nothing to do with the science of aperture and shutter speed, nor with the art of creating a print. It had far more to do with sharing that science and those prints with other people, or with using portraiture as an excuse to get to know someone better than I had before. My favorite parts of vacations have always been returning home to Seattle, to all the people I know, so I can tell them all about the trips (which, I’m sure, is part of why I feel such a bond with this city). When I first spent that time in the desert, even during the 72-hour period when I was isolated from all human contact, it wasn’t the introspection, the meditation, or even the landscape I enjoyed most – it was the smiles on everyone’s faces when we walked back to camp and were reunited. It isn’t the creation of culinary masterpieces I love, it’s experiencing the end result with whomever I cooked for. It isn’t about the waves on the sound, or the speed of the boat skimming across the water – it isn’t about pitching a tent in the woods next to a crystal-clear lake – it’s about the secluded experience with whomever is on the trip with me. It isn’t about the activities. It’s about the people. And therein lies my one true passion.
People.
It’s a vague, general, and somewhat ambiguous statement. That I’m passionate about people. But it’s truer than anything else that could fill that blank, and somehow it’s comforting to acknowledge it. Photography, the wilderness and cooking aren’t what make me come alive. They’re the best ways I’ve found to connect with what makes me come alive. And with any luck, that’ll give me a better sense for what the world needs. Thanks, Amy.
Jul 28, 2009
Jun 9, 2009
Shuttered
I have these little sticky notes sitting in front of my computer at home, with random notes scribbled on them. They’re chicken-scratch fragments of conversations I’ve had, usually with either Amy or Christina, that have stirred my interest in something grand. Possibly even something profound.
The Internet, and how the ever-growing networks of communication (Facebook, MySpace, Craigslist, etc.) have created a sort of exhibitionistic digital communism, lacking the authority figures so ever-present in the rest of our lives. Our lack of will power when it comes to things like diets, relationships, and the dentist – and that oh-so-ubiquitous activity we all master in our school years: procrastination.
Even with these little sticky notes sitting in front of me, though, I feel like writing about something else – something that a song (though not a very good one) reaffirmed the other day.
“Didn’t have a camera by my side this time
Hoping I would see the world through both my eyes
Maybe I will tell you all about it
When I’m in the mood to lose my way with words”
Have you ever been somewhere – a party, or on a road trip – and had with you the token photographer of the group? This isn’t someone who really has a passion for photography (read: Matt, I’m not talking about you). This is someone who is so caught up in recording the event for later review that they essentially miss it altogether. He follows everyone around with the unmistakable sound of a shutter clicking, recording each and every thing that happens. He comes up with some great shots, and there’s no doubt the rest of the group will appreciate what they eventually see in a Facebook gallery. But at the end of the night, this token photographer hasn’t been involved in many conversations. He has been too busy thinking about the rule of thirds, and trying to capture the best moments, to actually live those moments.
That was me.
I took four years of photography in high school. I got started at The Daily as a photographer, and didn’t stop taking pictures for the paper until shortly before I graduated. I still take photos for organizations once in a while, and part of my job at Lakeside is to take photos for the communications office. I am, and will likely always be, my family’s designated photographer. But I can’t tell you how many post-Thanksgiving dinner conversations I feel like I missed out on because I was asked to take photos. How many times I could have been asking my grandmother about what Colorado was like in the ’40s, instead of documenting her presence with a camera. How many sights around the country (and around the world) I could have soaked in so much more completely if I hadn’t been so busy trying to squish all the elements into the viewfinder.
Part of me thinks it was an escape. Holding the camera up afforded me a bit of solitude. It gave me an excuse to avoid what might otherwise have felt like a forced conversation. To sidestep superficiality in favor of being artsy. To be there, but not feel the awkward need to participate. All these years, I convinced myself I simply preferred it that way, but in retrospect, I think I was rationalizing being shy.
It is, of course, my own fault – and I’ve made a point of making a change in my life. Whatever shyness I had before has melted away, and I’ve realized that the experiences are far more important than the record of them. I don’t mean to imply that we shouldn’t ensure photos are taken of the important people and places in our lives. But think for a second about how often you look through the dozens (or hundreds) of folders of photos on your computer, or the box of prints shoved onto the top shelf in your closet. Then think about how often you reminisce about times past when you’re talking with friends or family.
It occurred to me that despite my passion for that hobby, I need to remember to put the camera down once in a while. To see the world through both my eyes, so I can tell you all about it when I’m in the mood to lose my way with words.
The Internet, and how the ever-growing networks of communication (Facebook, MySpace, Craigslist, etc.) have created a sort of exhibitionistic digital communism, lacking the authority figures so ever-present in the rest of our lives. Our lack of will power when it comes to things like diets, relationships, and the dentist – and that oh-so-ubiquitous activity we all master in our school years: procrastination.
Even with these little sticky notes sitting in front of me, though, I feel like writing about something else – something that a song (though not a very good one) reaffirmed the other day.
“Didn’t have a camera by my side this time
Hoping I would see the world through both my eyes
Maybe I will tell you all about it
When I’m in the mood to lose my way with words”
Have you ever been somewhere – a party, or on a road trip – and had with you the token photographer of the group? This isn’t someone who really has a passion for photography (read: Matt, I’m not talking about you). This is someone who is so caught up in recording the event for later review that they essentially miss it altogether. He follows everyone around with the unmistakable sound of a shutter clicking, recording each and every thing that happens. He comes up with some great shots, and there’s no doubt the rest of the group will appreciate what they eventually see in a Facebook gallery. But at the end of the night, this token photographer hasn’t been involved in many conversations. He has been too busy thinking about the rule of thirds, and trying to capture the best moments, to actually live those moments.
That was me.
I took four years of photography in high school. I got started at The Daily as a photographer, and didn’t stop taking pictures for the paper until shortly before I graduated. I still take photos for organizations once in a while, and part of my job at Lakeside is to take photos for the communications office. I am, and will likely always be, my family’s designated photographer. But I can’t tell you how many post-Thanksgiving dinner conversations I feel like I missed out on because I was asked to take photos. How many times I could have been asking my grandmother about what Colorado was like in the ’40s, instead of documenting her presence with a camera. How many sights around the country (and around the world) I could have soaked in so much more completely if I hadn’t been so busy trying to squish all the elements into the viewfinder.
Part of me thinks it was an escape. Holding the camera up afforded me a bit of solitude. It gave me an excuse to avoid what might otherwise have felt like a forced conversation. To sidestep superficiality in favor of being artsy. To be there, but not feel the awkward need to participate. All these years, I convinced myself I simply preferred it that way, but in retrospect, I think I was rationalizing being shy.
It is, of course, my own fault – and I’ve made a point of making a change in my life. Whatever shyness I had before has melted away, and I’ve realized that the experiences are far more important than the record of them. I don’t mean to imply that we shouldn’t ensure photos are taken of the important people and places in our lives. But think for a second about how often you look through the dozens (or hundreds) of folders of photos on your computer, or the box of prints shoved onto the top shelf in your closet. Then think about how often you reminisce about times past when you’re talking with friends or family.
It occurred to me that despite my passion for that hobby, I need to remember to put the camera down once in a while. To see the world through both my eyes, so I can tell you all about it when I’m in the mood to lose my way with words.
May 28, 2009
here goes
I'm reading a book, and it's got me thinking.
Into the Wild, by Krakauer.
It's about a young man in the early 1990s whose lofty ideals drove him to shed the life he knew, and everything comfortable in it, opting instead for a nomadic existence. Things didn't matter to him - he donated his bank account to charity, and burned the cash in his wallet. People mattered to him. Connections mattered to him. Perhaps most of all, experiences mattered to him.
He took many of his ideals to reckless lengths and treacherous places, eventually succumbing - utterly alone - to a harsh Alaskan winter. Many have called him a fool for casting aside the comforts of society, and said he had a death wish all along. I'm not sure about that, and neither is Krakauer - but some of his writings and his ideas send a shiver through me, offering a few splashes of water to one of the thirstiest and most unexplored places in my soul. The canyons in southern Utah, with their ancient Anasazi ruins and their spires and arches of sandstone, evoked the same feeling.
It might best be summed up in the words of the boy himself:
"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun."
-christopher mccandless, april 1992
Those words resonated in me. And those, among others in the book (and some events which have occurred recently in my own life), have got me thinking. Thinking about life, and love, about new experiences and what really matters, about my friends and family. I quickly realized I have a lot to say. Not in any particular order, and not necessarily enlightening - but I've had many conversations with great friends about fascinating topics, and I want to remember them and share them. Hence the blog.
I'll post about stories, and how we don't tell nearly enough of them. I'll post about religion, about friendship, trust and loyalty, about our senses of wonder and - as McCandless says - our adventurous spirits. It's likely to be somewhat existential, with all sorts of questions that have no real answers.
Maybe I'll be able to glean some insight simply by asking.
Into the Wild, by Krakauer.
It's about a young man in the early 1990s whose lofty ideals drove him to shed the life he knew, and everything comfortable in it, opting instead for a nomadic existence. Things didn't matter to him - he donated his bank account to charity, and burned the cash in his wallet. People mattered to him. Connections mattered to him. Perhaps most of all, experiences mattered to him.
He took many of his ideals to reckless lengths and treacherous places, eventually succumbing - utterly alone - to a harsh Alaskan winter. Many have called him a fool for casting aside the comforts of society, and said he had a death wish all along. I'm not sure about that, and neither is Krakauer - but some of his writings and his ideas send a shiver through me, offering a few splashes of water to one of the thirstiest and most unexplored places in my soul. The canyons in southern Utah, with their ancient Anasazi ruins and their spires and arches of sandstone, evoked the same feeling.
It might best be summed up in the words of the boy himself:
"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun."
-christopher mccandless, april 1992
Those words resonated in me. And those, among others in the book (and some events which have occurred recently in my own life), have got me thinking. Thinking about life, and love, about new experiences and what really matters, about my friends and family. I quickly realized I have a lot to say. Not in any particular order, and not necessarily enlightening - but I've had many conversations with great friends about fascinating topics, and I want to remember them and share them. Hence the blog.
I'll post about stories, and how we don't tell nearly enough of them. I'll post about religion, about friendship, trust and loyalty, about our senses of wonder and - as McCandless says - our adventurous spirits. It's likely to be somewhat existential, with all sorts of questions that have no real answers.
Maybe I'll be able to glean some insight simply by asking.
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