But I do have a head, and I can rummage in that endlessly, wherein is stored all of the above, plus a rather eclectic array of other items of interest.
If there is to be a key word in today’s exercise in wordery, eclectic would be the word. It is the word that perhaps best defines me. And, even at my greying age, I can still astound myself with feats of introspection that well, cause me to see myself in a whole new light.
Nothing is more fun than to poke around in the old braincase and turn up a new theory of “who the hell are you?”
I’ve often spoken, (typespoke?) about my eclectic nature when it comes to hobbies. I have no hobby, singularly speaking. I have hobbies. The reason is that no single one ever captured my attention for long periods of time. For a few weeks or months perhaps, but then I grew bored.
I came to see eventually, that I liked to do many things, just not exclusively. I became adequate at many things like quilting, sewing, crocheting, knitting, beading, and so forth, but master of none. I came to rather think myself the better for all that.
But in rummaging, I realized something. Eclectic shadows me in most other endeavors. I became a lawyer, but never had a love for law. I was perfectly adequate but there was no passion.
I found a passion for biblical studies and theology, and I still enjoy it, but the passion waned, over time. Like the wave that works it way to shore, it has no choice but to slide back quickly into the sea once there.
I garden, but I only like parts of it. I love cooking, but I have no desire to spend hours working out unique combinations until I find just the right blend of something. I will never create the prize-winning recipe, any more than I will the perfect rose or day lily.
I seem to have made a career out of being slightly above mediocre. A journeywoman I might call it. I can make an acceptable whatever, but not quite to the level of being truly a masterpiece. I don’t have the drive for that.
I am similarly captivated by no decor or style of clothing. I’m not an “American Colonial” or a “French Provincial” kinda person. I blend art deco with a Chinese screen with country distressed.
I am not a Christian Dior or a Ralph Lauren. I don’t die for Gucci or Cargo pants. I don’t care to stand out as fashionista or as freak.
Nothing would be more interesting than to throw all this as a psychologist and ask: who the hell is this person?
I rather suspect that there is a deep-seated, barely acknowledged sense of insecurity some where lurking. To do much well, but nothing spectacularly is the hallmark of one who doesn’t want to draw attention to the possible limits of one’s own abilities.
You can see as much here. Blogging is the platform for those who don’t want to test their writing in the cold creative light of actual publication. That calls for polishing and editing, finding the exact right word, not just a good enough one at the moment. Don’t criticize my writing for heaven’s sake, I’m just trying to get thoughts down on paper that are reasonably coherent so we can converse.
Yes, blogging is perfect for the insecure. A million excuses why that post garnered no comments, why traffic is slow this month, blah blah blah.
Still, when I think hard on it, I’m not displeased with my ordinariness. I like the fact that one day I may be reading Thomas Merton and the next an article on string theory. Tomorrow, who knows, I may be exploring the wonders of basket weaving, all the while toying with the idea of rereading Thucydides and the Peloponnesian Wars.
I don’t have to be an expert at anything. I am safe in my dabbling. I know a little bit about a lot of things. It makes me a renaissance woman! Perhaps a little renaissance woman, but one none the less–even if only in my own mind.
Tomorrow: What it takes to have a successful marriage (from a non-expert)