I am nothing. That's not the utterance of an incredible depression. It's just that I don't identify myself as some one thing to really get rabid about it. Other people perceive that I am incredibly serious about something: tennis, downtown, walking, writing, blogging (a different thing than writing in my book), food (especially odd food), certain performing arts, travel, certain causes. But really I don't feel very focused on any of these things. Perhaps that's just fine. Perhaps, however, I should have a position to flog, a cause to support, a passion (or two). Maybe it would be satisfying.
I see people in the real or virtual world who have become experts on something, out of passion or necessity and focus a lot of their life there. Maybe they are parents addressing a specific problem their kids have. (A friend's daughter has a new blog about cooking a special diet for her autistic son, for example.) Maybe they so love an art form that they dedicate a blog to it and get a book contract and give seminars. Maybe their job is writing about technology or social goings on. (I follow a couple of guys at the local paper who've buried themselves in these activities.) Maybe they are experts at film or a certain area of technology and really spend tons of time on it, get a job in the field, etc. etc.
I don't feel like I've ever done that. I've had ideas about how, if I dedicated the time to just one thing I could do this or that wonderful project like no one else. But I don't ever do it. Now that I'm retired and living on what I made during a long, haphazard career doing what was in front of me, maybe it's OK to be entirely unfocused. Just rocking along and not making a mark. I hope so.
[Photo is a reflection in a botanical gift shop trailer at the complex of trailers on S. First including Torchy's.]