There’s something to be said about hand writing things these days. You know, finding a ball point pen and rustling up some unused lined paper. Hand writing always makes me feel important.
I’ve always been far too curious for my own good. When I was young, I would watch people closely. I noticed it when mothers would scold the wrong child – I could see the true culprit, sneakily grinning behind mom’s back as his or her sibling spluttered in indignation.
I noticed it when white people were treated differently compared to others with darker skin – I saw how foreigners eyed up my white parents, with a mixture of respect and distrust.
I noticed the people who hand wrote their documents – I watched them in the hotel lobby, in the café with the indescribable falafel pitas, in the doorways of the crowded market streets. These people who hand wrote their documents always made an impression on me. Not only were they dressed well, but they had this air of importance about them, this kind of “do not question me” look about them, a feeling of power swirling about in their wake.
Minutes ago, when I sat down in a mess of blankets to hand write a letter to a (wait for it) Pen Pal (yeah, that’s right), I felt important as soon as my pen hit the blank page. And somehow, my mood has been instantly brightened by this feeling of significance, this feeling of contentment.
Moments like these are beautiful gifts – when seemingly small events, such as hand writing a letter, lead us to greater revelations and deeper understandings.
Moments like these cause me to overflow.
Cars on rooftops–battered signs–faded crumbling paint… Being on the 42nd floor really gives a person perspective. To jump, or not to jump (just kidding). Looking out, across the vast expanse of buildings and streets, what surprises me most, are the trees.
A couple of weeks ago I got into a conversation with an older man about life. I told him that I had recently finished my BA degree at SFU, and was now searching for my purpose in the world. He laughed and I stood still. He told me that he was 67 years old, and he was still searching for his purpose. I smiled, laughed it off, and continued on working. Was this man right? Will I always be searching for my purpose?
The adventurer inside of me says I’ll find it one day. The die-hard dreamer inside of me says it’s just around the corner. The realist inside, however, is swayed by the facts: 55% of American’s are unhappy in their workplace. They’ve even coined a catchy Rolling Stones inspired slogan: “We can’t get no job satisfaction.”
So my question is this: Whether each of us finds our unique individual purpose in life or not, do we at least get close? Do most of us strive to find careers that make us feel happy and fulfilled? Are we in job positions that utilize our greatest strengths? Are we brave enough to change our lives if need be?
I think I’d like to be one of the trees amongst the buildings of a city. I’d like to be a part of something real, something tangible, something with deep roots.
Yeah, I’m not a huge fan of this in-the-middle gray period of my life, but that’s where I am. And at this exact moment, the view is stunning.