pursuing life (not just passion)

I remember when I held my first journal in my hands. I was eight years old and my parents had gifted a floral notebook to me in hopes that I would busy myself. My first entries were graced with curt descriptions of my day, mom and I went to the store today or, there was a football game tonight and I couldn't sleep. I remember writing being a chore that I could live with. A dedication I begrudgingly thought worth pursuing.

Discovering true devotion is a long road for most of us. Whether you've known what you wanted to do since you were a child, or if it was something that came to you halfway through college, it's still a question that looms over us as we pick a path and wonder if this is something we truly want to do for the rest of our lives.

Does your path make you fall in love with life again and again? Yes, there are moments when you can't imagine sitting at the desk and writing, or whatever it is you do, but if you keep at it because you must, because there's something inside of you that will die if you don't, hang on that. Push through bad days, busy months, and be present enough to see how pursuing something fiercely helps you understand yourself and the world you're in. 

I'm not sure that I can define your passion for you. In fact, I can't. Because what wakes us up is different for every single person, but I can say this. Maybe passion is an over-reaching love for life. A constant showing up for the little things. Perhaps, beneath that, falls a dedication to pouring oneself into a craft that constantly reminds us of that love, that heartbeat within us. Then, we define our own names within it: Amy Jane, writer. Whether we feel worthy of the title or not. Even if we think that every other person in this world must surely have more talent than we do, still then. We claim it.

So how do we know what our devotion is towards?

My childhood was filled with creativity. My parents walked me through stages of wanting to become a doctor, pursue sports, and I think there was a time that I desperately wanted to join the ranks of female jockeys. Despite these scattered interests, I always fell back on the creative side of expressing myself: dance, music, and eventually, writing.

After having immigrated from Germany when I was a year old, we moved numerous times across the United States. I made many friends, lost just as many, and started all over again, and again. I wouldn't have called it tumultuous, because I had some of the same fire and longing to explore that my dad possessed. I loved the adventure. I loved the newness and the unexpected.

During most of my childhood and even on into my teenager years, I thrived on spending hours upon hours playing outdoors. My most trustworthy playmate was a Golden Retriever that would've let anyone into the house, thief and all. He and I would run through the vast fields behind our house and chase mice, find snake holes, and dream of days that I'd only ever encountered in books.

I won't bore you with tales of my pet chicken, but I still think about her from time to time and the memories still make me smile. If you didn't know that chickens can make some of the greatest pets, let me be the first to tell you that they can. Trust me, I was skeptical too. Whenever we had a windstorm or the weather would begin to get chilly, I would come outside to the coop and she would flap her way over to me, hiding between my legs and cuddling her head in my hands. It also helps she was the most beautiful chicken I'd ever seen with feathers that were golden and luxurious, she basically insisted that we call her Pumpkin. Which we did.

I think if there is any point in time that I could revisit, it would be those golden years. I long for their simplicity, but know that it isn't our times or circumstances that have changed us, it is our very selves. Our belief in the beauty of ordinary things, our contentment with sitting outside for hours on end doing nothing but thinking up stories and conversing with people has diminished in a sense of business. 

I began to experiment with different styles and never quite knew what genre I fit into. My friends wrote mysteries, romances, and adventure stories. I tried that too, but my mysteries were always pathetically human, too predictable. I had no plot. Even when I did, I still got too much into my character's heads. "Find your voice." my dad would always say. "Yes, but how!" I didn’t know how I fit into the grand scheme of writing, I just knew that I wanted to. I wanted to find a way to write about ordinary life, behind the mask, because when I did I felt that my first priority was to look inward, my own little corner of the world. I had to pay attention.

By the time I was seventeen, I was writing about complete strangers I had never even interacted with, just seen, heard. The more I crept into other people's experiences, the more I could write in a way where people of all ages felt, connected to, and were moved by words. This astounded me. A simple collection of words had the power to make us feel collectively, yet personally. How to describe that awe?

By this point, my parents realized that writing was more than a pastime to me. This made things complicated. I was supposed to go to a Conservatory in Boston. I was to teach piano, make a living, and hopefully... survive. Truth was that I loved music. It was my hobby, but whenever I would sit down to play, I would create stories in my head based on the overall emotion of the song. I could see my characters acting out the songs.

This was how I knew what I wanted to do. Everything always pointed me back to writing, like a nagging I couldn't still.

My piano instructor had her doubts as well, telling me that I would have to perform in front of large audiences and was I sure I wanted to do that? To train me up (and prove a point), she invited me to perform with her every Sunday in front of a crowd of roughly four hundred people. I never got used to it. Every time I sat down at the piano, my fingers would shake so much I was sure everyone could see it.

What makes you love life?

I chose writing and it has split me wide open. For the most part, it's extremely rewarding, but my craft also requires me to always parade my heart as if in a museum. I am the painting on the wall that I then have to study, pick apart. Why do I feel the way I do? What makes me react this way? Once I can understand myself, or at least connect meaning to a situation, I can then write with purpose. Besides that, there's also the demands of daily life. 

To-do lists, "real life", and mostly good responsibilities creep in and demand to be heard. I've spent months piling my obligations on top of my longing to write. In turn, I've begun to notice how I have become dull and lifeless. I don't listen along to music and create stories anymore. I don't see the world in color, the way I used to. Writing has become 90% discipline and there are times I thought I lost my love for the craft completely. 

Recently, I once again asked myself why I started this journey. Why I chose a craft that was seen as "irresponsible" and "lazy". Truth is, I can't live without art, without picking through the gravity of life and unearthing minute details that reveal what an extravagant gift it all is. I believe we were created for beauty. So, I write because it reminds me that we have worlds within us and they are constantly revolving. We are not static. I write because I'm reminded to stop once in awhile, to look around me, to sit across from people and not just listen to their words, but listen to them.

This is why I keep writing.

Also, your voice? That's you. That's everything you bring to the table. Whether you can find yourself in a genre or not, it's your unique way of thinking and seeing the world. Don't worry if it's been said before. Likelihood is that it has, but not by you. I know it can feel like what you have to say isn't important, but people are listening, I promise. 

So get out there, pursue life sincerely, and see what happens.