A friend of mine is struggling with what she wants to do the rest of her life. She is 60 and, having been a successful lawyer and a successful consultant, she wonders what is next. She gardens, she takes in stray dogs, she nurtures a family that includes her husband, a daughter, and stepchildren and much-loved grandchildren. She volunteers at a number of different places. I know how much she has done for a young woman in South Africa.
But somehow that is not enough. She needs a career.
My question is why? What has become of the small life? I know for many earning money is a necessity, not an option. But even for those of us who still need to be earners, why do so many of us seem to be reaching always for more, like a little kid trying to cram as many M&Ms as her mouth can hold, until chocolate dribbles down her chin?
I have come to believe in the small life and its many joys. As someone who has known since about the age of 10 that I would be a writer, I haven’t struggled as others have to define my vocation, my call, my profession.
When I was a teenager and young adult, I did dream of writing the great American novel. That hasn’t happened. Then I dreamed of publishing beautiful poems. And I wrote some lovely ones and made it into a workshop with a well-known poet. The truth, though, is that I am not driven to write poetry. I haven’t made the space for it that such work requires. See, I feel guilty even writing that. But if it had been my call, it would have happened. And goodness knows there are plenty of beautiful published poems out there to love.
The truth is I like my life. Okay, I love my life. I do. I love freelancing. I love having this blog. I love having time to take a walk in the middle of the day. I’m glad to have one dog and two cats to care for and hang out with. I’m really glad for my husband and for our great travels. I’m happy to have a 7th grader to mentor and a church to go to and a tiny little garden and a slightly bigger house in a gritty city.
Does this add up to a big life? No, but it adds up to a fine small one. I’m not going to save the world. I’m not going to walk down any red carpets or sign any autographs.
I am here to praise the small life, the opportunities it brings me to learn exactly how to love my neighbor (by which I mean, friends and family, those pesky people who I take for granted and who know me well enough to call me on what I need to be called on. Loving my neighbors and strangers is a breeze by comparison!). The chance I have to learn to feel compassion for those whose lives bear little resemblance to mine. The opportunity to not resort to road rage, to irritation, to constant complaining, as just a few examples of lessons I am still learning.
I enjoy my daily routine and I love my work, from writing a magazine article about how a staffing association won a legal battle that was cast as a thriller to writing profiles of students who manage to graduate from high school despite having obstacles as big as mountains in their way. It’s call with a small c but it’s mine.
Give me my green with happiness acres and keep your red carpet. I like this side of the fence.
The paradox of insular language
2 years ago
In my writing, I have often referred to life with small children as "small chaos." There is so much smallness in life with babies and preschoolers--it's ALL smallness. One is consumed completely (as in, downright exhausted) by laundry, feeding, cleaning, and playing tedious, mind-numbing games. And one becomes delighted by the smallest of pleasures too--a baby's smile, a toddler's clever use of words, the jolt of pleasure at noticing the shape of a preschooler's tensed calf muscles as he climbs the playscape.
ReplyDeleteI remember, in the church you and I attended together at one time, feeling that something was clearly wrong with me that I knew my vocation to be motherhood--such a small, small work compared to the save-the-world (or at least save-the-city) endeavors so many of our friends were involved in.
But now I see how it all connects. My "small" work of motherhood (which, of course, is not really small at all in the long term, but certainly it seems so in the short term) has directly fed my "larger" work of writing. I do strive to make an impact with my writing, to achieve some recognition, some bigness--not because it will make me rich and famous (ha) but because I am clear that God intends my words to bear fruit.
And the writing work that is expanding my horizons a bit, now that 2/3 of my kids are in school and the last one is more independent, stems directly from the small work of raising them in their early years.
I just wanted you to know that this post stuck with me and caused enough pondering that I wrote my own post on the same topic. Thanks for the inspiration!
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