Passion

My sister told me this past summer that she has thought about it a lot, and of all the people she knows, I am the one she could describe in one word. One word. Weird, huh? Then she asked if I wanted to know the word. The idea of being described in one word was a little intimidating and also unbelievable to me. So I said yes. She answered confidently, "Passionate." 

For the first few seconds, I didn't know what I thought about that. Then I let it sink in and realized, "That's crazy. Or maybe I'm crazy. I think she actually just did that. She pegged me in one word." I felt emotionally like I was wearing a paper-thin hospital gown...a little too exposed for comfort. :) Later, I ran it past David, and he confirmed her word choice without even pausing. He had a look on his face like it was common knowledge and he was surprised I didn't know that. I felt super weirded out. It's kind of strange when two of the people who know you best identify you in a way you don't identify yourself. Don't get me wrong--I know I am passionate. I just didn't think it was that obvious. Or dominant.

So of course I've spent the past six months chewing on that. And you know what? They're right. There's no point in fighting it. Evidence of my passionate disposition is all over my life. 

One of my earliest memories is waking up from a nap and walking out to the living room, where my mom was chatting with a couple of women from our church. Still sleepy, I walked over to her and sat on her lap. And I sat there, seething in anger at these women who had disrupted MY post-nap time with MY mom. That's pretty much all I remember--sitting there, seeing red, feeling anger so great I thought it would overtake me. Because they were there when I woke up. And that's all.

When I was a little girl, I used to get so angry I would accidentally pass out. Apparently, I did it semi-frequently. My blood would start to boil, I would clench my fists and jaw, forget to breathe, I guess, and...just drop. My mom said it scared her to death the first time, and after that, she just learned to step over me. I do love her for that. Seriously.

My favorite trees are willows. Until recently when I saw a movie about a girl who climbed up a sycamore tree and felt like she could see and feel and breathe the whole world in from up there. My breath caught when she described it, because I know what she's talking about. Later in the movie, the tree got cut down, and she cried and cried. And I did too, because...what a loss! I know what it feels like to lose your method of feeling awe and freedom like that. And so now I think maybe sycamore trees are my favorite. 

A man I love dearly gave me a compound miter saw and a power sander. I didn't even know what the saw could do, when he gave it to me. But I loved it immediately. The saw and sander gave me freedom. Now I know what it can do, and I love it even more. I love being out there in the garage with my earplugs on. I love the way the wood shavings smell. I love the way the saw feels in my hands. I love looking at what I did and knowing that I am the one who did it. The first time I saw a piece of cedar wood after I sanded and oiled it, I actually got choked up. Not even kidding here. It was so beautiful it took my breath away. Um...passion, anyone? Sometimes I forget that just because the saw is capable of doing something does not mean that I am capable of doing that same thing. But even as I say that, deep down, I'm pretty sure I can make all the things I want to, if I could just get my hands on a table saw and a scroll saw. No matter if I only learned what "bevel angle" means, two days ago. 

Yesterday I went running in the hours before dinner time. The sun was shining through the trees and it was breathtaking. About 15 minutes into the run, I was warm enough to peel down to my tank top. I was listening to music, and when a song by RHCP came on, it was suddenly like nirvana. Perfect. Happy is not a deep enough word to describe what I felt. Ethereal may be better. And up inside me welled this great love--for David, for supporting my running passion, for the earth for growing so beautifully, for God for leading us to live in this place that I adore, for life and love and health and learning and truth and falling and getting back up again. Pure bliss.

I work as a nurse. I think I might like to be a heart surgeon. I watch my photographer friend do a newborn photo shoot and I want to buy a $3000 camera so I can be a photographer right then, too. I pick Papa Joe's blueberries and zucchinis and corn and think I was meant to be a farmer's wife. Then I hear about the marriages of people around me and I am moved to tears that I am lucky enough to be a therapist's wife. My photographer friend encourages me to make some photography props to sell, and I am ready to launch a business doing it. I dream every night. I laugh so hard I cry on a pretty regular basis. Flip-flops are my favorite shoes because they make my toes feel happy and free. I start training for a marathon and think in the back of my mind that I might actually be an ultra-runner, deep inside. I read to my babies and I never want to do anything but be home with them, snuggling them and breathing them in and laughing with them and helping them grow. I watch "Les Miserables" and I am convinced that we need to give our whole savings account to help someone in need. When I say this to David, he smiles, takes my face in his hands, and says, "I love you. We are not giving our entire savings account away. Give it a few days, and you'll swing back around. It's because you just saw the movie." Then I am a little frustrated that he doesn't see how serious I am, a little embarrassed because somewhere in my mind I suspect he's right, and a lot grateful that I am married to someone so level-headed and grounded. 

What on earth would I do if I was married to me? It sounds so exhausting. David assures me that it is sometimes, but it is usually more fun than exhausting. Thank heavens. I have a favorite uncle who has told me a number of times that our weaknesses are our strengths in excess. I think he is right. I am embarrassed about the parts of my passion that place burdens on others. But then I see Haven cry (and cry and cry) over the backpack whose zipper has broken, or pick up the power sander in her sparkle leotard and ask with a gleam in her eye if she can help me build something, and I think, "She has it too." And what I feel is excitement for her, to live her life with that kind of heart.
So what is there left, but to be grateful for mine, too?

What do you love deeply? 

Do you have strengths that are also weaknesses? 

What do you do to tame them?