Personal manifest destiny: How I found my calling after decades of uncertainty
As we head into a new year and a new decade, it’s too easy to go all philosophical, pondering personal history and deeply serious, erudite topics.
For instance, I learned in social studies class about manifest destiny, the 19th-century doctrine that proclaimed the United States was destined to expand its territory over all of North America.
But what about personal manifest destiny? I guess we could define it as the idea that “we’re all destined to be good at something.”
The trick is finding out what that something is.
It’s hard to know ahead of time.
Are you uniquely qualified to be a nuclear scientist? An NFL quarterback? A best-selling author? An Oscar-winning actor? The doctor who finds the cure to cancer?
Will you earn an entry in the Guinness World Records book for having skipped the farthest, backwards, while blindfolded?
One should always aim high, but it’s also a good idea to be realistic.
If you’re terrible at math, maybe you should think twice before signing up to be an astrophysicist.
Can’t walk across the room without tripping over your own feet? You may learn to be more graceful someday, but being another Fred Astaire may not be your destiny.
Want to get good at something? Practice patience
If you’re still in doubt about your destiny but want to follow your heart, there’s one thing you’ll have to do before you can know if you’re on the right path. You must allow yourself to be really awful at something before you can be really good at it.
The first time you pick up a brush and dab some paint around, you won’t instantly be an award-winning artist.
If you’re a newbie with that 12-inch chef’s knife, you won’t be chopping carrots like Geoffrey Zakarian anytime soon. And if you try, your fingers may be at risk.
If you buy a Bugatti, don’t expect to get in, start the car, immediately drive 250 mph and survive.
Therein lies the rub. Most of us don’t have the patience to achieve greatness. We don’t want to go through the pain, expense and mortification of making a mess before we make a masterpiece.
What’s my destiny?
From my vantage point, I’m glad that personal destinies, manifest or not, aren’t cast in cement. My career choices have been all over the map.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Kathe?” So many choices!
How about a musical comedy dancer, as young me spun around the attic in one of my mom’s dress-up gowns?
A ballerina? I never grew past 5 feet, 1 3/4 inches, and ballet dancers are supposed to be statuesque.
An archaeologist or geologist? I’m allergic to dust.
I even dreamed of becoming a figure skater, and then we moved away from the ice rink. Phooey!
My ultimate destiny was uncertain for decades, with my careers ranging wildly from secretary to jewelry designer to business owner, baker, cake decorator and caterer. (I’m also a wife, mother, grandma and caregiver, my most important destinies.)
I’ve always been a writer, though, whether writing term papers, crafting commercial copy for a radio station or ad agency, heading a public relations department or being a freelance magazine writer.
Then I started writing a weekly column, which evolved into becoming a reporter and photographer. And here I still am, many years later.
What’s next? Who knows?
What else do you want to do?
What else would I still like to add to my list?
I’d like to be the person who automatically makes other folks smile, laugh and relax, a Billy Crystal clone with a snappy comeback always at the ready.
Those people know the ideal thing to say at the perfect time. That’s not me.
But we all have our fleeting moments of glory, when our words and actions are perfect for the situation.
For instance: Remember those classic, 1980s-era Grey Poupon commercials, in which two snooty men rode in side-by-side Rolls Royces, sharing a fondness for mustard?
Long ago, Husband Richard, Son Brian and I were at a standstill, traveling in white-out snowstorm traffic. I suspect we could have snowshoed out faster than we were driving.
In the next lane was a disgusted, totally ticked-off truck driver with a late load.
Son Brian waggled his hand at the man, who angrily rolled down his own window, growling “Yeah, whaddya want?”
Brian smiled ever so sweetly and said, of course, “Pardon me, sir, but would you have any Grey Poupon?”
The truck driver roared with laughter for the next few miles, which in that traffic jam, took a looong time.
That day, Brian’s manifest destiny was to make a miserable ride a whole lot more fun for all of us, at least for a little while.
Sounds manifestly good to me.
Happy 2020, everybody!
This story was originally published January 2, 2020 at 3:32 PM.
