On wandering, weaving, and the kind of work that doesn’t have a name

A short encouragement for the creatively diverse

The cursor blinks inside the tiny box, almost in slow motion. The blank bio line stares me down. Describe what you do in 100 words or less. I can feel my brain toggling back and forth, trying to gather it all into something that fits.

I’ve always been a bit of a wanderer, terrified by the idea that my life might barrel down the tracks of monotony. I’m not exactly a lane picker. I tend to flow with traffic. Left lane, right lane. A strong value for variety and passion for learning keeps me in wonder about the world and my place in it.

I could write that I am a choreographer, but that doesn’t feel complete. I could say I am a writer. Or a blogger or a teacher. But this kind of labeling feels like whittling down the fullness of who I am for the sole purpose of making sense to others. To fit a category that I’m not so sure I want to be in.

Do the same thing long enough, and you get good at it. The riches are in the niches.

I’ve sat down more times than I can count with this script in my head. I’ve told myself, this is it. This is the lane.

I’ll commit for a while. Maybe focus on coaching or teaching, on blogging or writing. I’ll force it to make sense. And for a little while, it does. Then, with a certain predictability, a week goes by and I’ve drifted back to something I told myself I was done with. This is usually followed by a good cry as my attempt to fit the script has failed. Again.

For 40 years, I’ve been aware that my creative energy doesn’t move in a straight line. It picks things up, sets them down, circles back, and wanders off.

Yet in a world that keeps insisting I’d be more successful if I could just choose one thing, sitting in front of a blank box like this feels confusing.

I hover over the keyboard. Type a few words. Delete them. Try again. Nothing sticks. After several minutes of attempting to conjure up a few words that feel impossible to write, I close the laptop and let out a sigh.

Just then, the timer goes off. The brownies are done. Downstairs, there are plants ready to be hardened off. Laundry half done. A notebook with ideas scribbled in a handwriting I’m certain only I can make out.

I step away from the desk and head toward the sink feeling an unexpected relief to find a pile of dishes waiting for me. A simple task that needs to be done in service to myself, my family, and our home. Easy and tangible. No description required.

Next, I get a pot of broth going from the scraps I saved up. As the simmer warms our house on a chilly spring day, I plan out choreography for this week’s class, take a peek at the budding garden, send a text message, and pay some bills. I move from one thing to the next without thinking about what it’s called.

Before long, I’m knee deep in the business of life, captivated by the sense that I belong to all of it.

I get out my notepad and scribble this down:

I create spaces where people can breathe, belong, and become.

Sometimes that looks like dancing.
Other times it looks like baking sourdough.
Often it’s a good conversation over dinner.

Lately, it’s getting the house and garden ready for summer. It’s pulling weeds with the neighborhood kids who are genuinely curious about everything. I won’t ask them to describe what they want to be when they grow up.

I have a feeling they won’t say just one thing.

Perhaps the goal is to live a life that can’t be contained. That’s mine anyway.

There’s more here than any box can hold. I’m just going to leave it blank for now.