On Being Relatively Average

Today as I drove to drop Sawyer off at preschool, I was listening to NPR. Alice Walker was the guest on whatever talk show filled my ears for my 15 minute drive. She is, of course, the author of "The Color Purple" and various other inspiring novels on race and gender. Interestingly, she was not speaking of her novels but of her love of raising chickens. Yes, this accomplished Pulitzer Prize winning author was talking about her absolute love of chicken-raising. She eats and gathers their eggs. Many of you know that I have an obsession with healthy eating (and with junk food to balance things out) so I was interested in this discussion; dreaming of the day when I might raise my own chickens, should I have the space and time. During this discussion, fans were calling into the show to thank Alice for the inspiration she has provided to them throughout their lives. She had clearly touched these people in many ways and they were obviously familiar with more than just her one award-winning novel and the subsequent movie.

As I listened to these callers, in all of their hero-worship, I started to think about my existence and the impact it will have. Certainly it is nothing like that of Alice Walker. I have no interest in fame. I will likely never have wide-spread impact on the world at large. Now, before you start assuming that I'm looking for some kind of validation that my existence is important, let me continue. I am a stay at home mom. When people ask me if I plan to return to work when my children are in school full-time, I'm never sure what to say. Frankly, I don't want to return to social work. I don't really feel that I have the power to change the world and my heart is not truly in the practice. Maybe I'm just lazy. I just don't have the kind of ambition necessary to really do something. That is not to say that I don't want to help this world become a better place or that I lack interest in activities in general. Quite the opposite is true. I like everything. I have just come to the realization that in general, my existence is relatively average. I have some guilt about this fact. I feel like I should be making money or changing lives or writing the great American novel. Instead, I try to read interesting books, volunteer when I can, and cook meals for my family. I would like to garden, quilt, and sew. These average acts are not going to gain any notoriety for me. So be it. Some might say I set the bar pretty low for myself. Ok.