There’s no way I can get this right. Quite literally, no way. So instead, I get up and water the plants.
That’s how I’m beginning a poem of the same title. It won’t go very far – so few of them do. Already, I’ve walked away from the poem like a half-eaten sandwich. From a poem I read this morning :
For some reason, this reminds me of the story
“Sandwiches” by Francesca Bell
I told last night at dinner, a story I meant to take note of,
but first, I think, since I’m constructing records,
I should finally make that list
of all the men I’ve slept with. So I do,
but I reach early on one name I simply cannot summon,
the name of the guy who took me
to the snow for a whole day and only brought
one sandwich, which turned out to be just
what sleeping with him was like: a trip to the cold
with only half a sandwich to hold you.
I write Sandwiches where his name should be and go on.
I laughed at that. The nervous type of laugh in hoping I’m not that man on some other woman’s list. I once joked with a woman about some of the guys I meet at bars. I give them all the name Steve. She used to wait tables in New York. She met her share of Steves. I quipped, “a litany of Steves.” I think that should be the title of a poem too. I sometimes crack myself up. Mostly because not many other people do.
I got up to wash the dishes – anything to distract from what I’m trying to do – which is drill down on the topic of purpose. This is how we spend our days. Dishes, work, bills, meetings, packing lunches, dusting, moving with superficial purpose – avoiding real purpose or too tired to pursue real purpose. At the sink, I lost a few moments. I have a new bottle of dish soap – mum fragrance, environmentally friendly. I could swear I’ve smelled this scent before. I think it might be the same type an ex had used…. which in turn reminded me of the time I stood too long in the shower at an Airbnb in Asheville or St. Louis or Charlotte because the shampoo was the same brand a woman I loved had used. Smell is a powerful trigger. “I write Sandwiches where his name should be and move on.”
The original title of this post was “Purpose.” I wrote it the morning after listening to a podcast about purpose. The take away was: cultivate one, don’t seek one out. I wanted to remind myself that this is worth exploring. It, the intention of exploration, sat here as an empty draft for a few days. I know I can’t possibly get it right. The best I can do is a half- sandwich approach to the subject.
I remember at one point in the podcast feeling almost certain of having identified various purposes in life – or at least having gotten close to revelations of my sense of purpose. I’m not sure that it’s ever been a clear “goddam of thunder” type of revelation or something slower like the way a bee noses her way through a field of flowers type of revelation, but I’ve felt close to sensing a purpose, and it has felt like both of those things: big and loud and subtle all at the same time. White curtains lifting lightly in a breeze and on the edge of something big.
I also struggled with the podcast. For one, it seemed to suggest that purpose is something within or is found through pursuits of interests and passions. I seem to find my purpose in others – in my interactions, in how I pay attention, in how I try to make people laugh and feel comfortable, how I share. The second problem I had is that I also believe, like many Buddhists and writers, that it’s probably a mistake to believe we have any more purpose here than the trees or rocks or a ham sandwich. “I write Sandwiches where his name should be and move on.”
On more than one occasion, someone I’ve dated has suggested that I treat being in a deeply committed relationship as though it’s my purpose, my essence. While there is more evidence and are more counter-arguments to that than there are supporting arguments, I’d agree… with the right person, learning, renewal, surprise, and building something larger than the self all take on an over-sized role in my life. I’ve had meaningful jobs and meaningful experiences, but few things have approached the sense of ease and satisfaction, wonder and magic as being in the midst of those rare connections. In those moments, time almost stops – small details reveal themselves, memories build and their etchings become well-worn paths. They become the crease lines around the eyes when we smile and the open-mouthed laughs we remember. Details like the type of shampoo or dish soap or how someone cooks the bacon all become infused with the spark of life… or something like that. Something that approaches purpose.
Far too often, I think we confuse purpose with employment… or, at the very least, we have a system of work that pushes that narrative. And for some, work is their purpose – which is great. But for many, it’s not. I sometimes think of purpose as those things one might choose to do if life (literally keeping oneself alive and fed and sheltered) didn’t get in the way? Framed that way, aside from doting on someone I kinda like like (shy smitten grin and all), writing, loafing around, being with good company, helping people, being a barstool therapist, or maybe even a real therapist all appeal to me as possible purposes. I know I like to make people feel comfortable or seen or smile. I know I like to make people laugh – though I think this is mostly to stroke my own ego and convince myself that I’m mildly funny. I know I like to help people think though their problems and emotions – challenging them to go a little deeper and maybe face some unpleasant realities. Often, I turn to writing because I’ve felt connected to words and phrases and would like to do that for others… and also because there’s less schooling involved than becoming a therapist. As much as I think I’d like to help people (in a therapy sort of way), I don’t want to deal with the really icky and messy things of people’s lives in large numbers. Strangers at a bar, sure. Intimate partner, of course. Five or six people a day, every day… probably not. I also don’t think I could keep my own biases in check as a therapist. I think most men are jerks and people can be self-absorbed and vapid. Again, I’m finding it much easier to plumb those depths, or maybe provide the type of help that say “you are not alone,” through writing.
Every once in a while, I think about pursuing a different path – maybe going back to school (writing or counseling). I don’t even know where to start with the whole smitten thing. Every once in a while I feel like I need to surround myself with people, places, and things that will remind me of what I feel my purpose might be. Having a sense of purpose is good for our health and mental well being…. the rest is sometimes described as languishing. That was how the podcast began – with a clip from the scene in The Graduate in which Dustin Hoffman is just floating around the pool and his father is on his case to go out in the world and do something. Floating seems more appealing than languishing.
As best as I can tell, I’m most aligned with my purpose when I’m sharing – either in a relationship, as a mentor or co-creator, as a friend with like-minded individuals, or as an aspiring writer. It’s taken me a while to cultivate the non-relationship forms of sharing – to see them as viable outlets or offshoots. I have been, at times, of a single purpose. I can see the potential flaws in that. It reminds me of an argument that I still regret. She was sharing about a passion – ironically, wanting to publish a book of poems. My purpose was us and her purpose, in that moment, was something else – a book, her writing. I was trying, inarticulately and heavy-handedly, to get her to see that there could be purpose in what we had. I can appreciate her sense of purpose in a different way now. At the time, we felt misaligned and maybe a little discarded, each of us with as much purpose as ham sandwich.