Dear Hilary,
I want to please other people. I want to do whatever will make them happy. You want 100 photocopies in 3 minutes? Done. You want a strategic plan for the future of an organization at this college? Done. You want me to be there, run this errand, listen to this problem? I would love to. But then I run headlong into this wall. I really want to be a writer. I really want to be a counselor, of some kind. I really want to put writing and counseling together in some strange beautiful combination, and I don't want to lose threads of theology, or of my love of French, or my love of theater... When I ask people what I should do, they tell me that I would be a great PhD student, of history or political science or philosophy. They tell me I could run an organization, a school even. I want to please them, and I don't want to disappoint anyone's dreams. Help?
Love,
Afraid to Disappoint
Dear Afraid to Disappoint,
Our piano is out of tune at home. The keys clink strange half-tones, and I swear I can hear it groaning when someone asks it to sing one more rendition of "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming." Have you ever watched someone tune an instrument? They take that strange fork instrument and hit it against something - your knee, or a piece of plastic or wood, the door frame, or something. And then they hold it up to their ear to hear it ringing. The air moves between the two tines of the fork and the note - a middle C, or an A - becomes the foundation for the rest.
I have been thinking in these last few months that certain loves in our lives are like a tuning fork. They give us the foundation for the rest, a measure against which we can understand how other things might fit into our lives.
Sometimes it's terrifyingly clear that they don't sound the same. I do not love everything in the magnitude that I love writing. I do not breathe, and ache and live in biology; I do not yearn for one more hour with a potter's wheel or a linoleum block printing press. And why should we be afraid of this? We will never be able to do everything, anyway. In the small amount of time we are gifted, why shouldn't our hearts be caught up in the work we love most?
I think you ache to write. I think your body physically feels the need to put words on paper. Why else, sweetheart, could you have written? I think you are beginning to tune the piano of your life by the writing tuning fork. So strike it and listen. Does counseling sound like that? Does teaching? Does directing plays or traveling to France? Does politics, or philosophy, or history?
You write to me that you don't want to disappoint others in their ideas of what you should do. I can understand that. You don't want to say no to a career in history or political science or philosophy, partly because you love these professors and mentors. You want to honor their work, affirm the value of their field. That's admirable. But, Afraid to Disappoint, I have to tell you that the only sure disappointment in this life is living less of you. You are the unlikely combination of counseling, writing, French, history, politics, philosophy, and faith. You are the unlikely wedding planner meets chemical engineer. You are the unlike-everything-else musician turned playwright turned nanny turned environmental advocate...
We all have deep loves that roar inside us. I think yours is writing and counseling and teaching and ten things I don't know yet. So your task in this world is to live that. Live more of you.
So strike the tuning fork.
Love,
Hilary
I am glad to see that I'm not the only one who talks to myself. :) I say "You go, girl." Be the writer.
ReplyDeleteThanks for stopping by, Brenda! Yes, these letters to myself really help me work through the questions I'm asking. :o) Thank you for the encouragement!
ReplyDeletei absolutely love the letters you write to yourself, hilary. they offer such a depth of intimacy. and beautiful, beautiful analogy. "We all have deep loves that roar inside us" . . . so very true. may i embrace the roar, instead of squelch it.
ReplyDeleteWhenever someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer for years was that I wanted to be an author. Then somehow the dream was set aside and I moved toward Real Work. And while I was an excellent good social worker, it wasn't my passion and my soul slowly began to die until I was no longer sure who I was anymore. I made the decision to step away from social work for awhile and let my writing dream breathe again. I'll tell you this much: I feel so much more alive and vibrant. Whether my novel is published or not, I am meant to write. It brings me the most pleasure and I will keep striving after this dream because it is part of what makes me me. Best wishes to you as you puzzle through these questions, friend.
ReplyDeleteOh Leigh, I'm so very, very, very glad that you chose to write! Your words always touch me. I"m thankful for the encouragement! I promise to keep dreaming big, friend. You are an inspiration!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Tanya. I have loved writing these letters. Thank you for your encouragement! I hope that you embrace the roar of the wild love inside you.
ReplyDeleteHow easy it is to be pulled in directions where we forget who God created us to be. I love the analogy of the tuning fork. Beautiful post Hilary.
ReplyDeleteI love the letters you write to yourself. They are truly fun to read, and I think they are a neat way to process struggles. You could host a meme where we all write to ourselves. It would be fun. However, you do it so lovely, I can't imagine I could craft one in quite the same way. I am glad you are writing and hope you figure out which deep loves are roaring contagiously and passionately and cannot be hidden within.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Jamie. It is so encouraging to hear your words. I would love to read a letter you write to yourself (and I like the idea of hosting something around here soon). I hope I find those deep loves, too. Your encouragement is a big part of that. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Amy. It is so encouraging to hear that the analogy resonated (no pun intended!) with you. I'm always so glad that you come by to visit.
ReplyDeleteUm. This post? Sings. What proof of your giftedness my friend. And I don't even know if that's a word, but it's true.
ReplyDeleteThank you, thank you, thank you. Reading your beautiful words has been such a part of this. Thank you so much.
ReplyDeleteCame here from Emily's Twitter. This is a lovely post. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThank you for coming by! I'm so glad you did.
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