Here's what I wish you could have seen this morning: your breath rising in white steam; mist drifting up from the ground; smoke snaking from chimneys; the valley, filled with clouds; behind, against a stark blue sky, the mountains topped with snow. The world was a study in contrasts--the vagueness of cloud, mist, and smoke next to the sharp, chiseled lines of the mountains. I couldn't stop staring as we walked down the hill. Charley was more interested in detours--peeing on tree trunks, peeing on fire hydrants, peeing on tufts of grass. Well, we all have our great pleasures in life.
As I stared at the snowy mountains this morning, I thought about passion--how it's so easily dampened by the concerns of daily life and the small, inconsequential distractions that help us deal with the grind. During the Superbowl at my parents' house, my sister unpacked a box of family history. Once and a while she'd toss a letter my way, written or typed when I was sixteen, filled with overwrought language and feelings. Reading my sincere (peppered with semicolons) thoughts would have at one point embarrassed the heck out of me, but I old enough now to respect my 16-year old self, and give her some slack.
Now, over twenty years later, perhaps I have become too sterile and controlled in my ways of dealing with things. Perhaps I take my passions and chop them into convenient pieces that I can shove in ziplock freezer bags and place in an ordered way in my freezer, keeping them on ice until I need them. I've become the organized 1960's housewife. When I need some passion, I pull out a bite-sized portion and defrost it in the microwave.
Okay, maybe not. I'm still overwrought in my feelings, and I still have a tendency to think, when I am feeling, that this is how I will feel forever. Hopefully my 16-year old self has been tempered with wisdom and calm, and there is nothing wrong with getting more chill as one grows older. After reading a letter I wrote, my sister commented, "Wow. You were really in touch [she meant obsessed] with your feelings." I agreed (you should see my stacks and stacks of journals from high school) and told her that as I grew up, I lost patience with my feelings and began to realize that they were not the end-all.
Feelings are different than passion of course, but I think they are linked. Emotions plus knowledge=passion? What do you think? This morning I got to interview a physics professor who is passionate not only about physics but about astronomy. Last summer, he organized an amazing series of Astronomy Talks, drawing all these world-class astronomers from three different continents who shared their passion with anyone who wanted to hear. Downtown was hopping. People who had no idea they were interested in dark matter or supernovas showed up in droves to listen.
This professor is world-class himself; he could teach anywhere. I asked him why he chooses to teach at a community college, and his answer was inspiring. First of all, he thinks education and learning is for everyone, no matter who they are, and he believes it should be free (or in this case, costing much less than other institutions). Secondly, teaching at a community college gives him the opportunity to self-direct his own research. "I don't believe in reincarnation," he said, "So I've got to get this research out there. It should be available to everyone." He's got great physics talks online, and they're free; his textbook is online and it is free. I could go on and on. But what was fabulous about talking to this guy is I felt his passion. I wanted to learn about astronomy, and I actually hate outer space. It freaks me out. But listening to him speak, I wanted to hear more about light bending and mysterious matter and all that other astronomy stuff :).
The last thing I want to note is that though I was interviewing him for a freelance project, he began our conversation by asking me questions. This never happens. He talked about children's writing and how much it is like poetry--sparse and profound. How refreshing. Most of my conversations about children's writing go like this:
Oh, you're a children's writer. Where are you published? How many books do you have? You know, I've got this story for kids I want to have published. . . .
Which is fine--but rarely do I bump into someone who wants to discuss children's literature, the philosophy and values and aesthetics that drives it.
So. . .passion. It is valuable but easily dampened by daily cares and prosaic worries. It bubbles up inside us; it cannot be contained; it produces action without idolizing action itself; it is the good creative force that keeps us making things; it promotes listening to others and true curiosity.
Postscript: One more thing I wish you could see this morning: Elspeth's cubist impression of Donald Trump, in red marker on yellow construction paper, on our fridge. Talk about passion. That kid has it in spades.
As I stared at the snowy mountains this morning, I thought about passion--how it's so easily dampened by the concerns of daily life and the small, inconsequential distractions that help us deal with the grind. During the Superbowl at my parents' house, my sister unpacked a box of family history. Once and a while she'd toss a letter my way, written or typed when I was sixteen, filled with overwrought language and feelings. Reading my sincere (peppered with semicolons) thoughts would have at one point embarrassed the heck out of me, but I old enough now to respect my 16-year old self, and give her some slack.
Now, over twenty years later, perhaps I have become too sterile and controlled in my ways of dealing with things. Perhaps I take my passions and chop them into convenient pieces that I can shove in ziplock freezer bags and place in an ordered way in my freezer, keeping them on ice until I need them. I've become the organized 1960's housewife. When I need some passion, I pull out a bite-sized portion and defrost it in the microwave.
Okay, maybe not. I'm still overwrought in my feelings, and I still have a tendency to think, when I am feeling, that this is how I will feel forever. Hopefully my 16-year old self has been tempered with wisdom and calm, and there is nothing wrong with getting more chill as one grows older. After reading a letter I wrote, my sister commented, "Wow. You were really in touch [she meant obsessed] with your feelings." I agreed (you should see my stacks and stacks of journals from high school) and told her that as I grew up, I lost patience with my feelings and began to realize that they were not the end-all.
Feelings are different than passion of course, but I think they are linked. Emotions plus knowledge=passion? What do you think? This morning I got to interview a physics professor who is passionate not only about physics but about astronomy. Last summer, he organized an amazing series of Astronomy Talks, drawing all these world-class astronomers from three different continents who shared their passion with anyone who wanted to hear. Downtown was hopping. People who had no idea they were interested in dark matter or supernovas showed up in droves to listen.
This professor is world-class himself; he could teach anywhere. I asked him why he chooses to teach at a community college, and his answer was inspiring. First of all, he thinks education and learning is for everyone, no matter who they are, and he believes it should be free (or in this case, costing much less than other institutions). Secondly, teaching at a community college gives him the opportunity to self-direct his own research. "I don't believe in reincarnation," he said, "So I've got to get this research out there. It should be available to everyone." He's got great physics talks online, and they're free; his textbook is online and it is free. I could go on and on. But what was fabulous about talking to this guy is I felt his passion. I wanted to learn about astronomy, and I actually hate outer space. It freaks me out. But listening to him speak, I wanted to hear more about light bending and mysterious matter and all that other astronomy stuff :).
The last thing I want to note is that though I was interviewing him for a freelance project, he began our conversation by asking me questions. This never happens. He talked about children's writing and how much it is like poetry--sparse and profound. How refreshing. Most of my conversations about children's writing go like this:
Oh, you're a children's writer. Where are you published? How many books do you have? You know, I've got this story for kids I want to have published. . . .
Which is fine--but rarely do I bump into someone who wants to discuss children's literature, the philosophy and values and aesthetics that drives it.
So. . .passion. It is valuable but easily dampened by daily cares and prosaic worries. It bubbles up inside us; it cannot be contained; it produces action without idolizing action itself; it is the good creative force that keeps us making things; it promotes listening to others and true curiosity.
Postscript: One more thing I wish you could see this morning: Elspeth's cubist impression of Donald Trump, in red marker on yellow construction paper, on our fridge. Talk about passion. That kid has it in spades.
Comments