Why?...Who?...Wait, What?

So I figure, when you're stuck in the forest with a 6-foot dancing dog, an oversized hamster and a freakish blue-haired fairy nymph, you’ve got one of two choices to make…run or roll with it. But considering that my ten-year old was an integral part of this utter randomness (note: hip hop lessons can even land you a gig on a Kyknet kiddie program), I chose to roll with it. I even chose to drink instant coffee. (I know, I know, I am officially the world’s best mom). And all that time in the peace and solitude of the pines (minus really happy producer, camera crew, tiny dancers, grunge fairy, mothers in backstage mode and Afrikaans kiddie song on repeat) I got to wasting my time on some big thoughts: why do I do what I do? You see, my favourite ginger, Mariette, had sent me the first entry draft of her very own that blog I’m gonna write. She answered the question for herself in the launch of this epic blog: ‘what is my Big Why?’ (By the way, her conclusion is brilliant. Go see for yourself.) But it all got me thinking: what is mine? Why am I even loitering in this cyber back alley? If these words are a spillover of my insides, what am I leaking? And I have to be honest, I have had no clue. That undigested answer has constipated my blog for a couple weeks now. And tonight I think I realised why. I’m too hung up on the what. What do I want to do with my life? What difference do I want to make? What legacy do I want to leave? All good questions, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve learned from experience - the two aren’t inextricably combined. The what will always leave you feeling a little frayed, if you don’t learn how to get behind it. If you don’t have the guts to eyeball it and unpack it - as it never crossed my mind to do all those months in Botswana 17 years ago. I was fresh off the boat from America -a wide eyed graduate, donned in Birkenstocks and Ivy League idealism that seemed far more porous outside the seminar walls. My self-appointed mission had earned me pats on the back before I’d left; now it earned me nothing more than phlegmatic stares. “Why are you here?’ my neighbours in the village would ask me. “Because I want to help you,” I’d answer. “But we don’t want help,” they’d reply. “We’re not asking you for help.” Their eyes were as honest and unflinching as their hopeless confessions, and both haunted me. Why was I actually here? If they didn’t even want , what - or who - brought me here? And why? It took a year to get my answer. In between that time I became dark and gloomy and existential-like. I wore my running shoes down and became skinny. I faked smiles and worked harder and doubled my Romany Cream cookie stock to show the board members how much I cared about their housing needs. I was a good little humanitarian on the outside. But on the inside I was unraveling. And no matter how many layers of bricks or sweat I’d add as an appeasement, it never seemed to plug up the hole. I stopped noticing the women ravaged by HIV, all eyes and bone who lay sprawled over my footpath, and I simply stepped over them like unfortunate interruptions. I gave up - although my body just kept going. No amount of what I do’s could sum total the peace I needed inside. And then I met my Who… Let’s be real. 17 years later, I’m a ghostwriter and a stay-at-home mom - not exactly the kind of stuff to blow your hair back at the 20 year college reunion. Sometimes I wake up and feel like a loser for no good reason. I’m prone to wrestle through the same existential blah blah that plagues the privileged few who live above the bread line. I’d love to say I was doing something that easily translated to the world as heroic or fantastic - that I spent my every day in court or in squatter camps, fighting injustice or packing food parcels for orphans. But the reality is, most of my energy goes to channeling the energy of three small hurricanes into something positive and constructive. (Or at least getting them to wear underpants and walk out the door void of toothpaste on their forehead.) Motherhood is a strange and thankless thing. And the truth is, although I have a hiccup here or there, I generally hover around the category of pretty darn happy. Because I’m starting to worry less about the what and tend a little more to the who I am becoming. I don’t want to live my entire life, stocking the trailer that will never accompany my hearse. I want to focus on becoming the person I plan to live with for the rest of eternity. I think we’re all cracked in some ways. We’re all stuffing the gaps with polyfillers like holidays and addictions, religion and politics, charisma and quick wit, and hoping that regular application will hold us over for a lifetime. But deep down we know, we were made for more than just a Caribbean cruise and perfect Sunday church attendance. You only have to walk outside your door and pick up a leaf to be reminded that there’s transcendence ingrained into our DNA. Everyone is worshiping something - even if that something is ‘nothing’. I’ve come to see over the years, the more I sidle up to this Saviour, the less I regret the time I’ve wasted there. And the more pleasant a person I find myself to live with. So I guess I’d come back to the original thought (remember that? :-)) and land it like this: my Big Why, I suppose, is my big Who. Who is this never-ending, never-not-forgiving, celestial-pot-stirring Creator? And who am I because of it? I think so long as those questions lead, I’ll stumble into the rest unwritten.