Look at that. It's after midnight. 12.12.12. As has just been pointed out to me on Facebook, the last repetitive date any of us will see in our lifetime (unless you have a secret plan to make it to 01.01.3001 and the planet decides to stick around for you). It might not be the end of the world (Mayans were notoriously unreliable, I hear) but it is one of those times when the hour gets late and the night gets cold and you start thinking about life and Purpose. With a capital P.
I've been reading a lot about Purpose lately. Purpose and transformation. As this blog's title suggests, transformation is a bit of a theme for me, and here I am, once again, transforming. But what am I transforming into? Ideally, especially if I wanted to start writing self-help books or star in a Hallmark card, I would be transforming into "The Real Me". With three capitals. But who the heck is that? Haven't I always been The Real Me? Look, there I am, six years back, The Real Me pretending to be a lawyer. Then there's The Real Me pretending to be a consultant, The Real Me pretending to be a writer, The Real Me pretending to be someone's boss. I'm fairly certain I was always me, no body snatchers were involved. But who should The Real Me be now? And why should this new variation provide any more Purpose than the others?
I read on Twitter the other day (Facebook and Twitter, these are the sources of profound thought for me these days) that Meaning and Purpose require Devotion. And I get that, I really do. People with passion for something, be it saving starving children, sailing around the globe, painting wild canvasses, whatever - those people inspire me. There, I think, now that is Purpose. And The Real Them for sure.
Only problem is, I can't relate. I have no passion for anything. I could never devote myself to anything. I am simply incapable of that kind of single-minded obsession.
Instead, there are hundreds of things I'm pretty keen on. I find the law quite interesting. I rather fancy writing. And running is jolly nice. To tell you the truth, I suspect I was born with a mutating gene of Britishness, circa Downton Abbey.
Because I am a dabbler. I love to dabble. Pick anything you can think of. Really. As long as it doesn't involve insects or ladders, I'm probably interested in it. And if I'm not, I'll happily add it to the list of things I would like to become more interested in.
Aye, there's the rub. I'm interested in everything, but devoted to nothing. Except dabbling. I am a devoted dabbler. A Devoted Dabbler, even. Because maybe that's a thing?