the philosophy of "choosing one"

There are several passions in my life that pull equal weight–my writing, my draw to environmental/feminist-related nonprofit organizations & the French language. And then there is my number one dream: to open a café/bakery in the traditional style that would serve as a nonprofit forum. I've always known that these things were meant to play a role in my life, each in a different way. I knew I couldn't give one up. I just didn't know how they would come together yet.

When I began choosing graduate school programs, I began getting even more advice about "choosing "one" than I'd gotten when I casually talked about what I wanted from life (to write essays, to dedicate myself to nonprofit work, to bake everyday). "It's best if you choose one," they said. "You'd have better chances of getting in; you'd look like a stronger candidate."

This idea was terrifying to me. It felt as if I would be tearing my soul–I'd be forced to horcrux myself, hiding my passions in bits of my past to feel like they were still, in some way, a part of me. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't choose one passion without having it be intrinsically linked to all other desires.

Yesterday, Joe showed me an article about an incredible man that was seemingly in a similar state of mind. Shelton Johnson is a poet, an activist and an employee of the national park service. He has won awards for his writing, got Oprah to visit Yosemite and has published books. Here's a bit of his awesomeness*:

He served with the Peace Corps in Liberia and attended graduate school at the University of Michigan, where he won several writing awards, including a Hopwood Award in poetry.

Johnson didn't choose one of his passions when he began earning his MFA. He found a way to bring them all together. He didn't limit himself to one way of changing the world: he touches lives through his writing, his work at national parks and his efforts (via Oprah) to bring more Blacks to national parks.

Johnson reminded me that it's possible, that passion doesn't mean choice. It means struggling to bring it all together. It means those feeling in your gut, in your throat–the ones that tear at you when you when you try to let it go, when you try not to worry or to fix or to push for–are meant to be a part of you. You just have to find the reason.

As Vladimir Nabokov wrote in Speak, Memory,

I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip.

Though I don't speak of memory, the sentiment is the same. We take the images that matter most, the feelings that form who we are, and fold them together to superimpose or image on the world. If others can't see where it all comes together & how this brings out meaning to the work you share with others, then by all means, let them trip.