Childhood Desire
The other day, my 7-year-old daughter Lizzie asked me, “When
you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?” It took me an
uncomfortable amount of time to remember and then formulate an answer. “I
wanted to be an artist,” I said with a heavy amount of irony. Her response was
simple, “What happened?”
That was really a great question. It would seem that I
certainly have the genetic make-up that would lend itself to the arts, with my
parents both having been musicians. I remember being very little and playing
alone in my room and concocting various imaginative scenarios that would have
been generous fodder for a budding artistic career if they had been nurtured; or
maybe not. Perhaps my internal imagery was intended to remain, just that,
internal. I often wonder if those who are determined to express their inner
workings without regard for natural talent are the same people who produce bad
art. Regardless, I do question what took me away from my childhood desire.
From the time I can remember my parents were always in
economic turmoil. Would there be enough money for housing, food and clothing?
The answer was generally as follows: Possibly enough for housing and food and
sometimes enough for clothing. I remember feeling a high level of anxiety as a
child and my mother would always wonder why. Apparently she had not yet been
familiarized with Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. In my family there would be histrionic
warnings of financial impending doom, and then hollow reassurance, peppered
with a mix of condescension and confusion about why on earth I would be
concerned about my basic needs. I do feel that this early experience has
allowed me to connect to many of the families that I come into contact with. I
often can sense a level of comfort in meetings with those in the lowest of
socio-economic levels. Unfortunately, this does not translate well to higher
socio-economic groups where I find myself at a dearth to engage in conversation
about topics that I find vacuous.
Whether or not my childhood experience was a blessing or a curse
or both, I believe it played heavily into the vocational path that I have
chosen; a path that for the most part has been laden with scientific training,
reasonable explanations, limited creativity and a desire to always state fact.
Psychoacoustics, statistics, anatomy/physiology, neuropathology and clinical
writing were all part of my training. These subjects did wonders to disguise
any form of visionary talents that might lie within me. Ultimately, my hard
science studying paid off. I was awarded with a Masters of Science. With all
the rights and privileges pertaining to that piece of paper in that frame on my
desk. Almost 16 years later I am able to, on occasion, sound really smart at
meetings because my primary preparation was as a scientific clinician and this
impresses people. In fact our society rewards people monetarily and in their
social stature for this type of training; the very reason I chose a “safe”
career to begin with.
I am still reconciling having made a heavily fear-based
choice of occupation. I knew I would always be able to get a job and that I
would not have the worries that infiltrate ones existence when basic needs are
in question. I also happened to have chosen something that I am relatively good
at. For these things I am grateful. I am
angry with myself for allowing a complete disconnect between my inner most core
and my mind to disintegrate my being. I have spent years trying to exclude
non-rational thoughts from my life. A misguided attempt to control my reality
through research and scientific “truth.” This thinking seemed safe to me. It
helped to keep the mysterious unknown that lurked just below my conscious level
at bay. It allowed for easy answers; at least for me because I was up to date
on much of the current scientific data. The expression, “cite your source”
still haunts me. As if something can’t be true unless someone else of greater
importance said it or it was published in a journal.
Too much “sensible” thinking and focus on completion of
linear tasks are the poison to my soul. It is how we live. A society of check
marks on to-do lists, compliance audits that need to be passed, and 5 to
10-year goals to be met. My creativity snuffed by obligation and adherence to
the minutia of life. I pray that my children are not sucked into the
utilitarian rabbit hole of our society.
Thus, the long answer to Lizzie’s question of, “What
happened?” is this: Life happened. And because I am a human, fear happened. And
because I am a human animal, fear of scarcity happened. I would not have wanted
it any other way because my basic needs are met and that childhood desire to
create is still in me and just needs a little rekindling.
