instead of working

I often wonder what the space is between loving something and wanting to be the best at it. Where does the difference come, or is there one? If you love doing something, should you strive ceaselessly to be the very best at whatever that is? At dancing? At playing basketball? At cooking french food? Or is it alright to be satisfied with loving something fully, so much that you are O.K. with not being the best? Are you O.K. with knowing that no matter how hard you try, there will always be someone out there more brilliant than you, someone one step ahead, someone who attracts more attention and praise than you ever will?

In high school I was often concerned with what it meant to be the best. I so easily gave into stress - the idea of not getting straight A's was terrifying. It meant that someone was better than me, that in the field where I usually excelled, academics, I was no stand out. My worth was my GPA and the number of awards I got and the number of praises I received from my teachers. That self sort of sickens me now.

I'm not sure what happened when I got into college, but that part of me just took a deep breath and decided to run away. My friends in high school could always anticipate my stressed out, Hermonie Granger-esque moods before they actually arrived. They would be ready with sweet notes of encouragement or a surprise vanilla latte. And first semester of first year, I remember getting calls from them around exam time in which they timidly tried to gage my stress level, afraid that I was on the verge of explosion. I don't think they really believed me when I said I was alright. I'm not sure I actually believed myself, but I really was fine. And now, I still am. Occasionally I'll relapse and exhibit some type-A personality traits, but the foundation of my self worth & even my very sense of identity has shifted. I've started answering my own questions about worth, started realizing that life is about loving what you do, not so much proving yourself in it.

This shift in perspective is gradual though, and still not complete. Tonight as I wade through papers and other work and look toward finals on the horizon, I feel the old me crawling out of her hiding place. What if I'm not a good writer? What if no one ever knows my name, ever reads my words? What if my best isn't good enough? Isn't good enough to get into the poetry workshops I'm applying for? Isn't good enough to ever make any sort of difference? Those possibilites are terrifying, but really, are they important? How much weight should I give them?

Here is how I feel about this right now, at 8:56 in Alderman Cafe on a sunday night. This could change in two milliseconds, but I'm thinking that the answer to that central question is: Keep Going. When I write, I feel myself breathing and expanding and alive in ways I don't feel with anything else. Poetry fascinates me and challenges me and I'm falling in love with it - so how could I stop? Why would I? It's where I want to become. It's what I adore. And maybe that is answer enough - do what you love. Even when everyone else around you seems brilliant and better and out to beat you at your own game. Even with the threat of being denied or hated or misunderstood. Do what you love, because that is what matters. That is what lasts. Maybe trying to be the best is important, but only in the sense that you work hard to become the best you, you work hard at what you adore in order to discover yourself more and to fall in love more. It is a challenge of being more yourself, even if that doesn't look like being better than anyone else. Does that make sense? Maybe not, but it's a pretty comforting life philosophy, so I'll go with it for now.