Why bother cleaning up when no one appreciates it, notices or says thanks?
Why bother fighting with my husband for the 400th time about the same dang thing?
Why bother telling my kids to brush their teeth, clean up after the animals, do their homework?
Why bother getting upset about the treatment of those minorities?
Why bother worrying about the way this country is slipping and sliding into something terrifyingly unrecognizable?
Why bother writing this blog, my book, anything?
Why bother with it at all?
This idea, this concept, this attitude resonates with me. Call it a remnant of my depression battles, call it growing older, call it what you will. It’s a bitch and I stare her down quite often. Sometimes she wins, she sweet talks me into procrastination, she badgers me into reluctance, she harps and expounds upon my fears until I am paralyzed. She whispers permission to not bother with anything. Once upon a time she talked me into it BIG TIME. Her words so deliciously intoxicating, so believable that I gave up on everything. But that was once upon a time.
Today I know that there is a fine line between why bother and whats bothering me. The cleaning, the husband, the kids – they are my duties. The country, the minorities, the problems we face – they are my instigators. The blog, the book, my writing – they are my calling.
I may never know if my motherly duties could have been fulfilled in a better, more loving way, one with less yelling and certainly less cussing. I will never know how to change the myriad of messes we face as a nation, even if I do have some ideas. I can only hope to know that my words have in someway affected someones life positively. The great part is that is not for me to know. Not yet. Not now. Maybe not ever.
‘A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.’
I don’t have the answers, I don’t have the formal training, I don’t have the college degree, but I have finally realized that I don’t have to.
I have a song. It comes in the form of words and thoughts. It comes in heart aches and heart swells. It comes in memories and details so rich I feel like a time traveler. They were put there, deep in darkest corners of my heart, for a reason. There is a reason I write. There is a reason Michelangelo crawled up to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and painted it. There is a reason dancers break toes and stay on time, there is a reason ball players pull muscles and still play extra innings, there is a reason scientists question it all. It’s Gods reason and our purpose.
I often wonder why this desire to write was placed on my heart. Why I can’t go back to not bothering, to not letting it bother me? I am embarrassed at my audacity to believe my words are wanted by someone other than me. I am constantly second guessing my self, my ideas, my dreams. I continue to ask my self and God, Is this really what I am supposed to be doing? Is this going to help any one at all? Can I make a difference with a silly blog and some feel good business cards? The only answer I get is ‘just keep going’. I am guessing ole Michelangelo may have heard the same thing stuck up on that ceiling.
Our purpose doesn’t have to make sense. It doesn’t have to add up to dollars and cents. It doesn’t have to get a shiny gold Stamp of Approval from our parents, family, friends, spouses or kids. It just has to make sense to us in the deepest darkest corners of our hearts. It is the only thing that has the power to transform our lives, the nation, even the world. It is the only thing that has the power to quiet the Why Bother Bitch…. Besides she’s been mouthing off for far too long anyway.