“Let the beauty we love be what we do.

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”

– Rumi –

I have been on the lookout for my passion all my life.

We seem to have this collective belief that passion will fall upon one; like a blessing, like an annointing, a holy moment that renders us different and uniquely distinguished from the masses.

We are, of course, desperately seeking to matter. We want to be special. “If only I had a passion,” we mutter to ourselves with the same inflection as the poor scarecrow wishing for a brain.

This June I will turn 55. Fifty-five! It’s ridiculous. I understand it’s a privilege. My mother didn’t know that eight years after her 55th birthday she’d be dead. Kathleen didn’t know that she’d never even reach this milestone at all.

So, I get it. I get that here I am…luckier than most, and yet, when will the passion befall me? Will I be walking and suddenly drop to my knees and have a revelation?

Listen, I spent time in Damascus, hell, I was even on the road to Damascus at various points…but there were no beams of profound light, no Almighty Voice behooving me to do this or that. Just my same ol’ inner monkey brain chattering away with so much to say, and really, nothing at all.

And then…the other day I was showing someone my art studio. She was happy for me but she seemed wistful.“Well,” she said, “if I had a passion, I’d have a place like this too.”

And there it was. The simple answer. She thought I had the very thing that both she and I were wishing for. Ironic, non?

It turns out that we/you/I, are the secret ingredient to having this passion-filled life.

It doesn’t fall on us. It is not a benediction that is bestowed on some but not others. It is not a visitation from on high. It is us simply showing up to our lives. Showing up and asking of ourselves a little grease, a little sweat, a little application of our abilities, whether nascent or trained.

It is easy to give up, to be bored, to succumb to the easy way out. With the rental of that studio, I made a commitment to myself of a space to create art. I promised myself I didn’t have to be Van Gogh, I would just keep coming back and trying.

So. Our job is to keep learning, to keep following that cheese, and one day we get to be almost 55-years old and have this rather obvious realization, which is: I light up when I talk about traveling, writing, creating art, learning something new, films, books, friends and family.

Right there, I realized that my life, my entire life is the passion.  The hard part in all this, is that it is a choice…every minute is a choice of whether I want to appreciate and notice my life, to be the most authentic version of myself in every encounter, with every stranger, and every friend. It is a choice to show up and do this blog on the days that I think I should just quit. It all takes effort, but it is precisely when I put in the time and energy into any area of my life, like writing this, that I feel so richly rewarded when I have accomplished what I set out to do.

The trick is that I have to want to keep loving what I do and loving who I am. But if I bring that spirit to my life, then, oh my, I will not have passion visited upon one little segment or to one particular speciality, but instead, I will be living a life that is engaged and passionate.

Don’t worry. I promise not to be evangelical in this. It’s not all straight sailing from here. I know there are trials. There are tribulations. Trust me. There is no doubt on that score. None.

And some days, like today, there will be chunks of time where no will or focus will stop the tears that slide from my eyes. Sorrow is a strange creature and demands its own time too.

But, in between, if I stay attuned and remain open and keep showing up, then there are blessings.

Heaps and heaps of blessings, and no shortage of passion.