What Price Passion?

I spoke to a friend today who told me his wife is leaving her job as a vice president of a major Chicago advertising firm. She's fed up, he said, and wants to take the rest of the year to figure out what she really wants to do. He said she's always hoped to open a bakery. I loved hearing this. Who isn't cheered by a good "follow your dream" story? We all wish we had the courage to chuck it all in search of some bliss, but how many of us actually do? But no sooner had I voiced my enthusiasm when my friend began hedging. It would all depend on whether his wife could adjust to the severe drop in income. How many cakes would she need to sell to make her dream worthwhile?

It was a question similar to one another friend posed to me last night: how much money do we really need to be happy? She shared a "fact" she came across while blog-surfing: that supposedly $40,000 a year is all one needs to be happy. Enough to cover food and shelter (though not cable TV) and the rest is gravy. Or icing on the cake.

The problem is, we all want our cake, but...you know the rest. It's easy to put a price tag on the things we want to acquire, but not so easy to quantify the things we give up. When there is no one there to pay us or pat us on the back for our efforts, can we still feel fulfilled doing it? Can it even be called a passion? Does it get downgraded to a hobby, or an avocation, or worse still, a past time? Playing checkers is a past time. And it's hard to imagine anyone leaving a job to pursue a life of checker-playing, unless it's at the retirement community.

But hurray for those who take the plunge and resolve to do what they love! How else can you find out if your passion is priceless, or only priced to sell?

Beware the Bread!

Today as I was loading the kids into the car to rush them somewhere, a neighbor flagged me down. She was holding a stale piece of bread in her hand. She was a new neighbor, having just bought a foreclosed house on the block. Had I seen anyone trying to get in to the house? she wanted to know. She waved the bread and said, "Someone's coming in. Someone left this for me on the windowsill. I don't eat bread." She told how she'd found chocolate chips on the table another time. And yes, some bags were missing. As she went on about her various theories about who might want in and why, I started to worry about the little ears that were perked up in the back seat. My daughter and her friend are 4 years old. they love watching Scooby Doo but worry incessently about ghosts. Would they have nightmares now of burglars? For that matter, would I?

I promised to keep an eye on the place and made a mental note to start using my alarm system. I pulled away and looked worriedly in the rear view mirror. Sure enough, both kids looked pensive. "Did you hear that?" my daughter said, wide-eyed. "She doesn't eat bread!"

Do you know the way to San Jose?

This year, after twenty years in a relationship, I found myself unceremoniously dumped back into the single life. More than a little bruised, I decided to add to my misery and post a profile on Match.com. My first attempts were tortuous. I knew exactly what I didn't want, but listing negatives didn't seem the way to go. I needed to talk about myself. Sell myself. Problem was, without my significant other, who was I? I tried probing friends gently, afraid they wouldn't be able to define me either. Brown hair, brown eyes, enjoys reading and dining out. Big yawn. Finally, late one night, I accepted the truth: I was the most uninteresting person on earth and would die alone, probably of boredom. I marinated this truth in a couple of glasses of wine and dozed, despondent, on the couch. Then, a memory: I once saw an improv sketch at a theatre in Chicago where each actor stated his name and said 'these are the things I know." Simple, but it made an impact. I gave it a try, and here is what I wrote:

I'm Tammy and these are the things I know: I know that I'd like to meet someone who exudes kindness and compassion, who is loved by animals and children, remembered fondly by a former English teacher, and who has at least one family member on speed dial. I know how to twirl a baton. I know that I will never win awards for cooking or performance art. I know how to speak a little Dutch. I know that I love to be inspired, and find inspiration mostly in nature (human and Mother). I know how to do a mean sun salutation (oxymoron?). I know that the reality within reflects the reality without, and that the secret to peace is accepting the impermanence of all things. I know that the first time I see my kids eat a salad I will weep with joy. I know that I enjoy diagramming sentences, but hate to read instructions, that I love to throw parties but I'm uncomfortable in the spotlight. I know that I love to see people using their talent, whether it's singing, acting, designing a house, or testing the super collider. I know how to weather a storm. I absolutely know that I will never run the Chicago Marathon again. I know the sublime joy of being inside a crowded jazz bar in the Latin Quarter and the look of the sun setting on the island of Santorini. I know the wisdom of 'all things in moderation,' that I don't like extremes, and that I'm happiest when there is a balance between rest and activity, solitude and society, care and carelessness. I know that everyone is fighting a battle and the ones who surrender are the ones who win.

I do NOT know the way to San Jose.

Putting this aside (I had a hangover to prepare for, after all), I forgot about it for a few more weeks. When I read it again I thought I must have been channeling some other being. The person I'd described was me, but a forlorn, forgotten me. A dusty self image waiting to be picked up and polished off. And the funniest thing? Reading it made me want to meet me.