I don't care like I used to

As I've been blogging a bit more recently, I have found myself wincing as I see the title and description on my page.  When I started this blog a few years ago I was full of fire.  I wrote of my travels and opinions, shared the punchlines of my talks and sermons and spouted forth my idealistic belief that the world would change and I could be part of it.  I've never wanted to be a famous activist or thought for a second it was down to me.  I simply saw the world and its inequality and had to say something.  Not acting wasn't a choice.  And trying to share the possibilities of transformation was the easiest thing I could do (most of the time).  I was one of life's driven people.

I started working in development early and the feedback I received inevitably included reflections on my passion.  There were the more mature folk who wished they were young again, as though it was inevitable that the dynamism fades with age.  I was encouraged not to lose it.  And I honestly thought I never would.

There are two streams of thought mooching about my mind.

First off, the clouds' most cruel trick is to rain so hard on the flames of 'caring about stuff'.  Forget inspiration and excitement, now it's difficult to dredge up the energy to be bothered about the most basic things.  It's heartbreaking. To have no motivation is bad enough, but to value yourself so little you don't seem worth looking after and lose the part of you that made you who you were is ... devastating.

I can log that under illness and deal with it as it comes.  In your face clouds.

However, it seems that growing older does mean you face a crossroads in caring.  As life and responsibility change priorities shift, that's inevitable.  I think you also face a choice though - 'that's the way the world is, get on with it and make the most of it' or 'the world can change but it's really complicated and unpopular to keep going on about it so I need to be sensible and relevant.'

I hope I can keep choosing the second option.  That said I am wondering whether the nature of being driven is something that changes anyway.  It's not like I don't care, I do.  The nature of my response is what has shifted.  From impulsive emotional charge and urgent ranting at the state of the world, in my lucid healthy seasons I'm experiencing passion in a new way.  Fortunately I don't feel like I have to work all hours of the day to be worthy, or to make sure I don't feel guilty for standing by while others suffer.  Thank you age for that one.

Instead of my heart impulsively shouting, it's like my soul is aching and my caring has crept into my deeper experiences.  And that means that I feel a lot of despair that the statistics aren't changing and the world simply isn't listening to the cries of so many.

It means I see the faces of those I've met in Africa in the faces of those struggling on my own doorstep.  It means I am so so angry at establishments who focus so much on surviving they forget their responsibility.  It means I have to choose regularly to be one of the unpopular folk who won't let go of the idea that life can be better for the majority.  I'm no longer driven by something that has conveniently given me my purpose.  I'm driven by the knowledge that I've seen too much to let go of hope.

My passion is coloured with feeling so useless sometimes and so it becomes stubborn determination.  My passion is angry a lot more than it used to be, it unashamedly begs and it lacks gloss.

I still got complimented on my passion this weekend.

Phew.