Of pointless things
... how could I possibly waste time on things that have no point when there is a whole world that needs me??
I’ve been working on a puzzle. I try to complete one each winter because it feels like the ultimate wintry thing to do. Other than skiing - a venture that the good Lord did not bless me with either the courage or skill to do.
This year, I chose a puzzle depicting a beautiful outdoor European marketplace with festive stalls and bundled shoppers. It caught my eye immediately in the checkout line at Marshall’s - that corridor of temptation second only to the aisle of shame at Aldi’s! Immediately, I knew this was “the one,” and plopped it in my shopping cart without noticing the vast expanse of snow and sky in the picture.
For those of you not inclined to puzzling, snow and sky mean this: a large portion of the puzzle is greyish white. In other words, a lot of pieces look like they could work in a lot of places.
As I dumped the puzzle pieces onto the table, my inner life coach nudged me with a motivational “Let’s get the worst part over with first.” Obediently, I sorted the puzzle pieces, tucking away the fun, colorful ones and beginning with the boring look-alike pieces.
It’s been two weeks now - maybe more - and working around my inn/restaurant schedule, I’m finally about to finish the sky and snow. Thank goodness for some trees that helped to break up the monotony!
Bending over the puzzle, squinting to find where a piece with the tiniest speck of a clue might fit, I’m tempted to quit. My inner life coach is getting annoyed with the slow progress. My inner critic thinks I have much better things to do with my time. My inner comparer notes that my sister-in-law has finished two puzzles in the same amount of time, one of which was mostly snow, so “get with it, Amy!” My inner child feels like a frustrated failure. My inner old person’s back hurts!
All of my inner parts begin shouting, “WHAT IS THE POINT OF PUZZLES?? After all, you just break them apart at the end anyway ... unless you have the wallspace to laminate and hang them ... which you do NOT!”
A little overwhelmed, I take a break from the puzzle and spend the rest of the day on things that have a clear point, like loading my dishwasher, rebooting the laundry, and planning the weekly menu for the restaurant.
I feel the relief of productivity. My inner coach, critic, and comparer approve. My inner child feels their approval. My inner old person just wants a nap.
UGHHHH .... how did I get like this? What am I even doing? And why do I have so many voices in my head?? (a topic for another day!)
***
What IS the point?
The question kept circling in my brain and growing from what is the point of puzzles to what is the point of ANYTHING without a point:
* What is the point of playing the piano alone in your home?
* What is the point of writing words that no one will read?
* What is the point of painting pictures that you’ll never let anyone see?
* What is the point of walking without a step counter?
* What is the point of reading books that are not “helpful?”
* What is the point of sitting by a window with a cup of tea and watching the snow fall?
* What is the point of hobbies?
* What is the point of playing Solitaire, Wordle, or Candy Crush?
* What is the point of dressing nicely when you aren’t going to see anyone?
* What is the point of baking cookies for just yourself?
The list of questions went on and on....
Now, before you send help my way (what with all the voices and spiraling questions), let me be clear: I realize how crazy these questions sound.
I know the right answers. I know that these activities are valuable parts of a healthy, well-rounded life. I know that people engage in them because they want to. Because they love them. Because they feel good when they’re doing things they love.
I know that doing things you love IS THE POINT, but I feel awkward and empty when I try to do things just because I love them.
Whyyyy???
I don’t know how to sort out the pieces of this life puzzle, so I make a cup of tea and sit by the window to watch the snow fall. This seems like a good way to ponder the deeper questions swirling through my mind:
* Why do I believe it’s ok for others to relax but require myself to work to exhaustion before I’ve “earned” it?
* Why do I think productive activities are wayyyyy more important than “just for fun” ones?
* Why do I feel baffled when I ask someone what they’re doing, and they say, “not much” or “just chillin’” as if this lack of productivity doesn’t bother them in the least? Like, what does chillin’ even MEAN?
* Why do I flounder when I have a day without a clear agenda?
* Why do I multi-task constantly - crocheting while watching TV, listening to a podcast while walking, answering texts while eating dinner?
* Why do I fill long weekends with projects and vacations with “catching up” on reading and online courses?
* Why does my mind race around like a schizophenic rabbit on steroids when I try to do something simple like ... oh, say, a puzzle?
Yes, I have a busy mind. Yes, I have a full life. Yes, I was raised “old-school.” Yes, I’m highly motivated. Yes, I judge myself and others far too much by what we DO.
But I know the answers lie deeper.
The memory comes suddenly.
I’m about four years old, and I’ve been playing outside for hours. My hair is flying in all directions, and my bare feet are brown with dirt. Mom would say I look “stribbly.”
I’ve come inside from playing in the yard to discover a family emergency unfolding in my mom’s writing room.
Mom’s been holed up at her desk for days, under a deadline for the book she’s writing. We’ve all been under strict orders to leave her alone, so I find it strange that the whole family is gathered around her desk.
“It just won’t do ANYTHING,” Mom says, feverishly pressing a key on her typewriter.
Dad does a very dad-like thing. He picks up the typewriter, turns it upside down, and shakes it. Nothing changes.
My sister reaches down and jiggles the carriage return. No luck.
On the verge of tears, my mom peers down into the typewriter's mysterious inner workings. Nothing looks helpful.
She begins punching random keys again, harder and harder in her frustration, but the little metal arms lie strangely still.
As the panic in the room rises, I stand beside my mom’s desk, taking it all in. All of the ‘big people” are upset, so I know this must be very, very bad.
Mom gives another hearty punch to a key, and I see something. Right there under the keyboard, at my four-year-old eye level, a tiny lever jiggles. I notice that it jiggles every time Mom hits a key.
Quietly, I reach out my small finger and slide the lever to the side.
Clackety Clack Clack Clack!
A flurry of jumbled letters spills onto the page.
The room erupts with loud excitement. Mom is clapping in relief. Someone picks me up and twirls me around.
“You saved the day!”
“You’re a smart one!”
“You figured it out!”
****
Up until that moment, I’d just been a kid running around through life barefoot and a little stribbly-haired. I’d never fixed or solved or saved anything or anyone.
But now in the midst of the happy voices, a feeling surged through my tiny body - a powerful infusion that made my heart race and my head rush.
I didn’t know quite how I’d done it, but I had clearly crossed an invisible line in my family. No longer just “little Amy," I had become a hero, and I knew that I would do whatever it took to feel this feeling again and again.
And that, my friend, was the moment I became addicted to PURPOSE.
To fixing and solving and saving.
To making every moment count.
To becoming SO USEFUL that people couldn’t HELP but love me, right?
That was the moment that I became the student who studied during recess and once told a teacher she “felt like a big fat zero” when she got a 98% on a test. The employee who routinely worked 20-plus hours of unpaid overtime a week. The woman who stopped celebrating her birthdays and anniversaries because “it’s just another work day for me.” The business owner who couldn’t turn off her phone - even on vacation. The person who hears, “I don’t know how you do it all” over and over.
The Purpose-Driven Life wouldn’t be published for another 31 years, but I’d nailed the concept at the ripe old age of four.
In my mind’s eye, I watched the little girl climb the stairs to her bedroom. I noticed she stood a little taller now. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone a little brighter.
With the push of that tiny lever, her small life had shifted. Her entire family was happy with her. She felt seen and loved and important.
She had found a purpose before she even knew the word.
After that moment, how could I possibly waste time on things that have no point when there is a whole world that needs me??
More importantly, how could I ever stop being needed when that is how I earn the affirmation and love that my soul craves?
*****
I’ve been walking around with this deeper understanding for about a week now.
Remembering that moment. Remembering the electrifying feeling flooding my body. Remembering all the times I’ve reached for the “levers” that I hoped would unlock the cheers and admiration of others. Remembering how tired I’ve been for most of my life.
While I don’t have any big answers, I’m pretty sure that I need to start running through life barefoot and stribbly again. I need to give myself a break (maybe an hour at first?) from fixing and solving and saving. I need to remember the delight of pointless things.
I need to fire my inner coach, my inner critic, and my inner comparer.
I’ll keep the inner child because she’s pretty darn cute, and she has a puzzle to finish.
And then I’ll let my inner old person take a nice long nap.
Just because.
I want to.
It feels good.
The end.