Call Me:
Long ago in an alien land of little worries, big plans and religiously enforced family meal timings, I faced the most daunting task of my six years on the planet: jumping into the deep end of the swimming pool. Having only recently learnt the grown-up art of swimming, I ventured for the first time into the deep end, by acting on that impulse to jump in. It was absolutely exhilarating, from my momentary suspension in the air, to the novelty of the sheer mass of water that engulfed me thereafter. My brain struggled to comprehend the experience, and as I finally started floating upwards, I in all the glorious naivety of youth, felt transformed. Years since, in my pretentious hyperbole, I have often found metaphors for the significance of that ‘epic jump into the unknown’ and how accurately it represents my passion for adventure to this day. But getting older, I find myself increasingly vulnerable to joining the ubiquitous masses of those who have along the way, lost the taste for life.
As I sit with my friends, it is not uncommon to hear something along the lines of, “I wish I’d started studying earlier in life.” “When I have kids, I want them to be able to do whatever they want,” or the commonly uttered, “My kid will become a footballer.” Older people will light up as they recount their stories of excellence in art or sport, and then fade before your eyes as they subsequently add that they were unable to follow their passions.
But it is far too easy to say that one should follow their passion because really, what does that mean? What is my passion, exactly? And so I decided to think really hard about it. Cooking? I’d rather just order. Connoisseur perhaps? With enough ketchup and mayo, I decided I’d eat just about anything. Okay, then sport. But stand outside in the rain and mud? No, thank you. I will, on many such occasions, sit before my computer and start browsing the internet (surely, I think, if I look long enough something will eventually have to give). Thus begins an intellectual feast, consuming hours worth of inspiring TED talks, YouTube videos, and reading hundreds of articles along the lines of, “10 Ways You Can Become The Galactic Beast Of A Man You Are Destined To Be.” I will gasp, and laugh, share and ‘favourite,’ and get up feeling suitably inspired. By what exactly? I haven’t the slightest idea - usually just an abstract aim: Must read more. Must gym more.
I will then treat myself to a jar of Nutella.
Not too long ago, in a somewhat déjà-vu moment, I found myself standing on the edge of a cliff looking out onto the clear blue Mediterranean. I intended to jump and was looking for space in between the massive rocks at the bottom. Like the six year old boy debating the sanity of jumping into the swimming pool, I was excited and scared in equal measure. I took a deep breath and pushed myself off towards the sea below. The fear, the rush, the relief and ensuing sense of achievement followed as they had done all those years ago. But this wasn’t the life-changing event I had envisioned it to be. I didn’t feel like a new or changed person. Essentially, I felt exactly the same, just happier. But perhaps, that is all I really needed to feel.
My point, I suppose, is that as we grow older, each new experience represents a smaller percentage of our archive of memories. Maybe as individuals, we are better served to trust that they will collectively shape us in their own time, rather than look for meaning in everything, big and small. It’s perfectly okay to be a little lost, to not know who you are or what you really want out of life. Everyone (I’ll assume) aspires to be a cancer-curing astronaut rockstar, and that is also fine. But we should not allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the discrepancy between our current condition and who we strive to be. The aim should not be to instantly comply with a specific ideal of success, but instead, to better yourself incrementally over the course of a lifetime. Then congratulate yourself on being, in your own special way, a poetic testament to the sheer variety of life.
The Nation’s Call Me column is an anonymous piece of writing, where writers can relate deeply personal stories.
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