Passionate

I have had an epiphany. I haven’t been to my therapist in over 4 months, so this one is all my own…I have found my passion.

Life.

Super fucking corny, right?

I blah-blah-blahed all about this “lack of passion” for the past two years. Wah wah wah…I have no sense of self, no definition, no hobby. Well, guess what? I am done. I am over it. I have come to a slow coming realization that perhaps life is my passion.

That sounds weird, doesn’t it?

I stay home with the kids, do laundry, occasionally clean, grocery shop, help out at school and bartend for some extra cash. It’s not glamorous. It’s not even noteworthy, but it’s ok. I like piece-working my life together with lots of different scraps. My kaleidoscopic quilt of collected fabrics held together by some rickrack and embroidery thread. It is funky and fun and kind of obnoxious. The pieces don’t quite fit together perfectly, there are a couple loose seams, a few errant threads, maybe a worn spot or two, but there is room to grow, improve, and add on. My quilt is infinite and always available for possible revisions. My quilt is forgiving and perfect in its imperfections.

So, maybe I didn’t have to find a passion. Maybe it wasn’t a hobby that I was searching for. It was simply a passion for life that was missing, not a job or a career path. I wasn’t looking for a music lesson or a painting class…

I needed a passion to live my own life. I was missing a zest for living.