Four Little Letters

There are days and even seasons when most of life feels a little out of whack. When my very identity feels like it its being called into question. When those things I usually consider my strengths look like nothing but inadequate scraps being offered where others offer feasts.

Four little letters seek to define me. To explain who I am. To dictate how I must behave. In the past, I have been proud to be an INFJ. But in the space in which I find myself today, those letters feel stifling and undesirable. In the past, these four letters have been a helpful label—a way to explain myself. But today I find myself reacting harshly against the idea that someone can pretend to know me based on my personality type.

The letters seem too polarizing. As if I am only one or the other. I am either an N or an S, not both. And the tyrant of “if onlys” seems to be pounding on my door. If only you were an extrovert, you’d be better at this job. If only you had more “J,” you’d get more things done. I try to ignore them, but sometimes they shout, and I give into their luring lies. But, the truth is, I am a little of them all. I have a little E in this I body, and I have lots of P in between the lines of my J to do list. I am a both/and, not an either/or, kind of girl.

In the words of Over the Rhine, my favourite group, I am “bundles of contradictions, my heart full of loose connections…it’s always the same old question, who am I? and whose invention?”

I thought I’d have a better answer to the question of who I am by now. But I find I am still just trying to figure it out.

Clay Goats

Ever since I first watched the movie Ghost, I have wanted to learn to throw pots. Finally, my dream is becoming a reality. Two weeks ago I began a pottery class. For three hours once a week I get my hands dirty as I play with clay. The first class was all that I hoped it would be. There I sat with my very own block of clay, and I formed and shaped three bowls. I am an artist.
I went to the second class a few days ago. I got out one of my bowls to paint it...and it began to crumble apart in my hands. Hmmm. So I began to paint another bowl and soon realized that there are others in the class who seem to be able to make their bowls look like something you would want to buy....while mine looks like something only a mother could love. hmmm. We moved onto our new project--making slabs and forming them into cylinder shapes. The teacher made it look so easy. So, I did as she had shown us...only instead of becoming a flat square, my clay became a lumpy, cracked blob. Hmmm. I decided that it's in the second class that we begin to separate the proverbial sheep from the goats. I think I'm a goat.
But I still love those three hours of my week. Three hours where my only concern is the shape of my clay. Three hours where no one can call me. Three hours where, even as I try to create, I don't have to produce. There can be beauty in being a goat, even if I'd rather be a sheep.