The last line in George
Elliot’s Middlemarch has been running
through my head recently. It reads, “But the effect of her being on those
around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is
partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you
and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully
a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” To sum it up, if you do what’s
right, even if no one remembers you, you’ve had a positive impact on the world,
and that’s good enough. And isn’t that what I’ve been doing?
Last night, I helped watch Christine’s sister’s kids at a wedding. That was nice. And the other day, I went to my old high school and helped with a reading group. That’s pretty nice. I empty the dishwasher sometimes. Kinda nice. And once, I crocheted little animals and left them for strangers. Way nice.
But is that all it’s supposed to be? Am I contenting myself with the small things when I should be reaching for greater? I have to ask myself these questions because these are the days in which I decide what I ought to be doing with the rest of my life. Oh of course, I’m young, and I can always decide to do something different, but why not get it right on the first try if I can? Why not find myself in something worthwhile from the get go?
And as I search the internet looking for the perfect job or position, as I look through google maps trying to find the perfect city in which to live, and as I open blank document after blank document trying to type the perfect words, I’m afraid I will never find it. I will never find the great thing that I was always meant to do. I will never find that stroke of genius that I am to be remembered for. Instead, I will rest in an unvisited tomb. And when that fear takes me, I think of George Eliot and her brilliant novel. I think, “Well if Dorothea can live such a good life and be content with obscurity, so can I!”
And so I make plans how to best content myself with obscurity. “Incredible,” I think as I scroll through Pinterest, “These bacon jalapeño deviled eggs will prove to my husband I am a loving wife.” “How cute!” I scroll, “This Noah’s Ark blanket will show my baby I really care.” “Whoah,” scrolling, “Those abs will be my abs. And I will be so sexy.”
But why must I content myself with unhistoric acts? Why should I aim to rest in a forgotten grave?
Fear.
Fear of failure. Fear of pursuing the wrong dream. Fear of embarrassing myself when I realize I can’t reach what I aspire to.
But I am beginning to realize that not reaching at all could be so much worse.
Last night, I helped watch Christine’s sister’s kids at a wedding. That was nice. And the other day, I went to my old high school and helped with a reading group. That’s pretty nice. I empty the dishwasher sometimes. Kinda nice. And once, I crocheted little animals and left them for strangers. Way nice.
But is that all it’s supposed to be? Am I contenting myself with the small things when I should be reaching for greater? I have to ask myself these questions because these are the days in which I decide what I ought to be doing with the rest of my life. Oh of course, I’m young, and I can always decide to do something different, but why not get it right on the first try if I can? Why not find myself in something worthwhile from the get go?
And as I search the internet looking for the perfect job or position, as I look through google maps trying to find the perfect city in which to live, and as I open blank document after blank document trying to type the perfect words, I’m afraid I will never find it. I will never find the great thing that I was always meant to do. I will never find that stroke of genius that I am to be remembered for. Instead, I will rest in an unvisited tomb. And when that fear takes me, I think of George Eliot and her brilliant novel. I think, “Well if Dorothea can live such a good life and be content with obscurity, so can I!”
And so I make plans how to best content myself with obscurity. “Incredible,” I think as I scroll through Pinterest, “These bacon jalapeño deviled eggs will prove to my husband I am a loving wife.” “How cute!” I scroll, “This Noah’s Ark blanket will show my baby I really care.” “Whoah,” scrolling, “Those abs will be my abs. And I will be so sexy.”
But why must I content myself with unhistoric acts? Why should I aim to rest in a forgotten grave?
Fear.
Fear of failure. Fear of pursuing the wrong dream. Fear of embarrassing myself when I realize I can’t reach what I aspire to.
But I am beginning to realize that not reaching at all could be so much worse.
