what drives you
the question asked, what drives you? would you say your life is driven by fear, guilt, resentment, the need for approval? this was one of the more difficult questions. it was a hard enough exercise to try to determine what i thought the purpose of my life is supposed to be, in an effort to live a life that means something. but everyone’s driven by resentment or the need for acceptance and approval at some point or another. what category did “the need to be remembered and remembered correctly” go under? could i admit to being so nonspiritual and self-indulgent about the driving forces of my life?
the progress of my days had been bumpy, at best. one could say that life was fleeting, if one wanted to be trite about it. one could say there had been an ultra-awareness and prominence of life’s blatant flightiness and impermanence. my grandmother having recently passed away. i’d stood beside her descending coffin and sobbed as though my own life was being drawn out of my chest. now all the objects i’d rescued from her abandoned, skeletal home, my grandmother's "things"—the rusty sewing machine, tiny picture frames, the silver cup holding her handful of collected sea shells, thread bobbins in every imaginable color, doll-sized spoons, a dozen thimbles of variable sizes, embroidered handkerchiefs, a hammer, large sewing scissors, a million pins and needles, white knitted baby booties, small cardboard boxes of sundry buttons, hair combs, and safety pins—were in a shaky pile against my bedroom wall, waiting more than three weeks for me to face them without all my insides collapsing into a crumbly heap of broken chunks and pieces. objects she’d evaluated and chosen with her hands and bought and collected and stored and organized and misplaced and found and used and never used over her fleeting days.
today i thought about some things i needed to buy. then i thought about some things i wanted to do. then, with discernment, i asked myself why.