I used to think I needed a purpose with a capital P, like curing cancer, achieving world peace on a political level, ending climate change. Now, those kinds of goals still seem valuable but I’m prioritizing my own joy even ahead of the noblest external goals. I’ve seen what happens when I don’t: I become restless, irritable, discontent, stressed out, unlovable. I wonder why I’m so miserable and why those around me are so miserable with me when all I want to be is Good Good Good.
Well, here’s the weird mind-fuck: The more I try to be good, the worse I get.
Trying to be some abstract idea of Good is a) exhausting, b) missing the point. I’m supposed to be me. Me, flawed, growing, flowing with what feels good, to me, at this phase of existence. I am what I am.
I’m not advocating immorality or sloth or avarice or any of that kind of hedonic fleeting pleasure. I’m talking about faith that I have something to offer, something natural for me to offer, and if I focus on that rather than all the things that aren’t natural for me that somehow some way got labeled in my mind as better than me-me, then, then, maybe something wonderful will happen.
Or rather, that will be the wonderful thing, the joy of being true to myself, in service to others, one day at a time.
I’m gonna keep going.