A simple but key step to living a fulfilled life is accepting what we do and do not have control over.
My beliefs – religious and spiritual – lead a wandering, brooding soul like myself to acknowledge that we have control for a little less than half of what happens to us, but that 49% is critical to our overall well-being.
What we do have control over is our decisions, our process of reflection upon our lives which (usually) leads to a more fruitful existence, attitude, and choice. Some big, some small, but all of our choices make up the sand and clouds of our day. We just have to be aware that they are, in fact, choices, and not forced up us. It’s quite freeing if you adopt this mentality.
For instance, I last year I attended a conference on trauma stewardship. It was about how to practically care for oneself when being exposed to the everyday traumas of our lives: violence, suffering, abuse, war, famine, poverty, oppression.
For those who work in social services especially, one of the lessons that was emphasized was reminding oneself that your occupation is a choice. For many of us, those who are caretakers, or social workers, or counselors, or really anyone who works on the front lines of trauma, begin to feel like their work is growing a life of its own; as if no one else can do it, like s/he must do it alone and after a little while, you being to resent it. You begin to view it with pessimism. And thus begins secondary trauma.
We choose the work and life we live, not the other way around. And at any time, if you feel the negativity of the work warping your perspective, that life is nothing but one big lemon — it’s time to remember that just as we chose the work, we are able to walk away.
But is that true for writers?
I think I have tried to walk away from writing approximately 2837271 times. Each time unsuccessful. And the work of writing is isolating, sometimes staunchly so, and unceasingly divisive. In the world of writing, there is no mental multitasking. I cannot respond to anything else when writing, my brain is so absorbed by its thoughts.
I didn’t choose writing. It chose me. And, unfortunately, when I don’t do it, when I think of a life without it, I slip into a very dark hole that thinks life is one big lemon, that everyone else gets to do what they truly love, and I, given this yearning to jot down words, must balance a tray of work, family, and responsibility just so I can get a few hours here and there to do what I truly love.
For many writers, writing itself can be traumatic. Gloria Anzaldúa once wrote that she would occupy herself with every possible chore and task to avoid her writing desk. Once you sit down and commit, writers unleash the ghosts, goblins, and demons that most people silence in their heads. Writers activate them for truth-telling. Sometimes writing just ain’t pretty. The dark oils that spill from our keyboards and pens can turn bloody as memories and questions are resurrected for sharing with readers.
Perhaps that’s the difference between jobs and vocations. I’ve had a million jobs – server, golf caddy, admin coordinator, counselor, advocate, cashier, sales rep, camp leader – and I walked to and away from them for various reasons, but always knowing it was a choice. Writing has never felt like a choice. It was like a calling. A distant, over the mountains, faint echo of sirens calling. A lusty, obsessive call of the soul to communicate. In my world as a writer, the only choices I see are the ones to set up my life to make writing happen.
Perhaps it is the things that we do NOT have control over which become potential treasure maps. Weather, rude strangers, stop lights, sickness, family, childhood, body type, shoe size, allergies, others’ decisions. WIth or without our handprint, these winds of life blow in whatever direction they please.
You can be blown over by it. Or you can parasail.
