This past Sunday I made my way to church. I find for me that it is kind of like the gym. I never want to go, but I never mind when I actually do. It was kismet that the sermon revolved around gratitude and contentment.
Content is defined as satisfied with what one is or has; no wanting more or anything else.
It might as well be re-written to say not Marta.
At first sitting there, on the wooden pew looking upon Bear fiddling around with his toys knocking into the man next to him with no concept of his surrounding space, I felt so much guilt at my discontent. How I reek of want. There is no ounce of me that is satisfied. I want more of myself, much much more. I want more of what I have and don’t have. I want better and bigger.
Thinking about the excess, what can be trimmed, scaled back. How I could be more content with what is in front of me, perhaps even that too much. As he spoke his words flowing over me my brain ticked off future returns, purchases and projects put on hold, the accounting tape running as the amounts tallied. I could be content. I could be satisfied. Couldn’t I?
Yet the discontent inside of me churned. Resisted.
I struggled all day with it. The only thing in my life I would truly not change is my children. They are perfect exactly the way they are. Perhaps one day, when they’re older I may think of things that could be better, but now at 5 and 18 months they are exactly what I would envision my children to be. Yet without them it’s a series of should could would always just falling short of satisfactory.
Dissatisfaction is a symptom of ambition – Mad Men
That night I decided that I’m content with my discontent. I want more. Be more. Reach for more. See more. Feel more. Love more. I want more of everything. I am full of dreams. Elaborate Dreams. Passion. Energy. And that’s okay. That’s who I am.
You will never be extraordinary if you are happy being ordinary. And I never want to be ordinary.