Redux

It never gets old.

photo: bb borne (Douro Seen)

Inadequacy. 
That is what I run into all the time. 
Right now even.  
I get to a certain level of 
achievement, enjoyment,
say with singing or guitar 
or photography, 
mountain biking,
poetry or
weight training - 
and then 
advance no further.  
I get bored,
or maybe frustrated,
obstacled, or maximized,
and move on to something else after 
a brief period of ennui. 
I then set out to exercise 
a new latent talent 
or to explore 
an unexpected interest, 
say like oil painting or fly fishing 
or quantum mechanics or hypnosis,
winemaking, 
paddle boarding
or kite flying, 
for example. 

Some say all these endeavors,
undertaken with 
a fair modicum of skill,
at a virile level of pursuit,
and with thrilling potential,
make me a Renaissance Man.  
An interesting person.  
A character.
Different.
But really, I am only 
a bit better than meh 
at an impressive 
range of things,
and that’s it.  
Jack,
All trades.
No mastery.

Better to have potential 
than to fail?

A long career 
of complicated labor,
my job.
I am very good at it,
one of the best, really.
Objectively. 
But my heart does not 
beat time there,
where the time-and-billing clock
ticks relentlessly as 
the gravity of vocation
vacuums me away from
all the things 
I really want
to do.  
Yes, ok,
there presses some longing
for professional recognition,
for a bigger, surer nest egg,
an award or two,
public accolade;
but my heart
digests that longing
and expels
it with impressive
regularity.
I never will,
I never will. 
It's crap,
cave.  
Oh. 

I have dawdled.
People are waiting in line.

These stabbing thoughts - 
they overtook my purpose
and stood me still
after I pressed my way
through the folding doors 
of the airbus lavatory 
on a trip
to Portugal, 
a flight
to the rapturous valley
of Fado, 
olive oil,
Fatima,
dancing,
the artistry of cork,
and green wine.