Here, in no particular order, is a list of things I am passionate about:
Words; how they fit together (or not), how we do our best to use them (poor approximations though they are) to express those things which are enormous in magnitude, the things that rock us and move us and inspire us and make us want to pull our own cherished experience from the inside and hold it up to the light so others can find delight there too.
I am passionate about my amazing friends. When I see me through their eyes, I see my real self – infinitely capable, fun, a good time. They are the best mirror in town.
I am passionate about the stripes on the handle of my handbag. There’s something so harmonious about the bright orange together with pale blue. The other day I wore a dress that matched my bag so perfectly, that when I saw the two of them together, I squealed.
I am passionate about my husband. Of the many things I dig about him (too numerous to list here), his smile is definitely up near the top. He smiles with his whole face – teeth, eyes, ears, even his freckles seem to radiate joy.
I’m passionate about live music – there is something exhilarating about hearing it live. The way the vibrations wash over you. I’m being literal here. Sound waves, and all.
I am passionate about color.
About combinations of colors,
particularly on paper,
and most particularly at Paper Source, which is this store I am also passionate about, because you walk in and are met with an explosion of color, sheets of paper in every hue and pattern draping themselves playfully around the room. Whenever I go there, I get this rush of delight, which I imagine is how Dorothy must have felt when she first landed in Oz.
I’m writing all this by the way, cause the pouring of it out on paper reconnects me to these passions, reminds me of their depth and scope, of my depth and scope. Flushes out all 5 of my senses. It’s fairly easy for one’s passions to fade to a pale shade of beige. It’s not anyone’s fault, but we live in a world where getting too excited about anything is considered childish, immature, or worse, un-cool. Before you know it, your passions have diminished to a photocopy of a photocopy, and life has become something to be “gotten over with” rather than to be lived.
I’m passionate about flowers, too.
I like being surrounded by them, or stopping to smell them on the street. I’ve never really had the desire to grow them, but that’s okay, because luckily, other people have a passion for that!
I’m passionate about people. I forget that one sometimes. In the beige moments, my fellow humans become intrusions and interruptions, barriers between me and the subway entrance, or the public bathroom. But the truth is, I really love them, in all their mixed-up, well-intentioned glory. People, after all, are just doing the best they know how. Wanting to be loved, respected, heard, they are just soft, mushy, creatures crouched behind postures of grown-up pretense.
I’m passionate about living my life
while I’m around to live it
which I hope will be for a while
but you never know,
So as long as this is where I am,
I’m mighty happy (passionate, even) to