in: the jill of all trades

out: the expert

At the young age of ten, I had identified the key to my future success and happiness. I only had to pick a single life’s work and fully commit myself to it. My devotion would be a given. In time, I would grow in both expertise and reputation. I would be a dedicated ________________ (fill in blank here) and I would win at this game of life. 

I hadn’t really devoted myself to anything as of yet, I was a free agent, happily buzzing from one craft to another. My tabula rasa was ready and waiting. I recall visiting a garage sale where I spotted a used flute, resting enticingly in the dark velvet lining of the case. A thought sparked in my mind: it could be this, this could be my one thing! Shall I? Watching the Olympics when I was 12, I figured that if I really dedicated myself, I could perhaps compete in the ’92 games  — sport to be determined. 

This unwavering and remarkably intense desire to become a virtuoso stayed with me for the next 40 years. I still have this desire, I haven’t yet been able to rid myself of it. Am I a mere pawn who has internalized the cultural expectation of expertise? Yes, of course I am, but I think there is something else here as well. Whether it be a dancer, a musician, or an artist, their devotion and mastery creates something synergistically out of this world. A beauty that captivates. And I am the one held captive.

The flute at that garage sale emanated energy. I felt electric in its presence. I saw my future self, as an expert, radiating that same energy. It was less about what the world might think of me as a flutist, and more about me and this flute and our blissful future together. If I were to attempt to identify a dopamine kick, it would be the feeling I had staring at that flute. Did you too hear the angels singing? Now I am thrifty by nature, and I believe it was the price tag that dissuaded me from this potential lifelong euphoria. Apparently 30 bucks was a wee too high for securing my future happiness and success. 

What has eternally puzzled me is the contrast between the steadfast nature of this desire of mine, and the subsequent results whenever I choose a field of expertise. I lose interest about as quickly as one might pass a hot potato. This pattern, starting at 10, began to repeat itself over and over again. From musical instruments to artistic pursuits, university degrees to career paths. The discovery, the hope, the reality, the inevitable fall. The extreme discomfort I felt in the working world, was that I was asked to do 8 hours of something that I was interested in doing for 20 minutes. There was a certain misery that arose from this deep boredom. I felt my life force draining from me.

Over the years living with my husband and daughter, I have seen how their body and mind move toward their one pursuit, steadily, consistently. Once they settle into working, they have this staying power, they can work on one thing for hours. There is a gravitational force pulling them toward their interest. A meal becomes a nuisance (the shock, the horror!). This is not about them trying harder, this is an innate difference. No matter how much I adore my chosen hobby of the season, in under an hour, I’m satiated and ready for something else. I am not simply a failed expert, I’m a dilettante! I am ready to turn over a new leaf and honor my 20 minute attention span.

As a homemaker, I generally go about the day in an upbeat mood, switching from one task to another, moving through the list, quite content. Note how similar this sounds to my description of me buzzing about at age 10. There is beauty to be found in all of this dabbling. A plenitude of what I love — macramé, sewing, making, playing guitar, gardening, writing and reading. My expertise should be measured by the breadth of my skill set. Skills that perfectly prepare me for self-sufficient radical homemaking!

in: weeding yard, drinking home grown tea

out: driving to the apothecary, money spent on tea

I drank my last cup of chamomile tea yesterday evening. I had purchased the flowers at our local apothecary, a step up from the individual bags I was buying before that. Organic chamomile, accidentally spilled in customs and mixed with a little mallow and anise, and therefore 20% off. Score. The tea was my nightly kindness to myself. I could just go and buy more, and I imagine I will, but not quite yet. 

When we purchased our house ten years ago, we had a single lemon balm plant that had stubbornly taken up residence by our foundation and grew each year to great depths deep inside our window well. Wanting to avoid herbicide, my plan was to slowly kill this deep-rooted beast by cutting off all of its leaves — again and again. It inhabits an annoying little corner that is easy to ignore, and, as though it walked out of a salon with a cute new cut, it thrived. Its progeny have also flourished. Last year, we knew that it was a battle between the lemon balm and every other plant in our messy back yard. We dug it up, thoroughly extracting each root we found. If I am anything, I am thorough. And, it’s back this year with a vengeance. I have lacked the motivation to weed it, one more thing on the endless list. However, after drinking my last cup of chamomile, this became easy to move up the queue. I will make tea from plants residing in my yard — I will weed this lemon balm, steep and drink it. 

I just had a cup for dinner and another with dessert. Dang, where’s my chamomile? Actually, there’s some potential, I’ll give it some time to grow on me.

I will be turning 50 this coming winter, and I am still trying to figure out two basic questions: Who the heck am I? And what do I want to do with my life?

My husband and I have spent the past ten years slowly increasing our spending habits to provide some needed ease in raising our neurodivergent child. This was a very kind and appropriate decision given our circumstances. Then one evening in late May of this year, my husband arrived home inexplicably two hours early. Perhaps you can guess what’s coming. With this unexpected job loss, thrift became our new mode. I was wholly surprised to be having fun. I had forgotten the thrill of it. (Flashback to me dumpster diving in my early 20s!!!)

In rediscovering thrift, I felt like I revealed a little bit of my core self in the process. This isn’t the first time I have put something down for decades only to see my own reflection when I pick it up again. That feeling of “Oh, right! This is me!”

For the past twelve years, I have been a homemaker, and I have struggled mightily with this sole identity. I have enjoyed the work. I have found balance. Now if I could only ignore cultural demands and see this as enough. I then happened upon the book Radical Homemaker: Reclaiming Domesticity from a Consumer Culture by Shannon Hayes. **Fireworks!**

This blog is about my transition from homemaker to radical homemaker. In this, I hope to further embrace the thrift and makers community, increase self-sufficiency, enhance our sustainability practices, and reduce our monetary dependence. Most importantly, I hope to recognize more of myself in the person I am becoming. 

Let’s be clear, I am no superhero, nor do I aspire to don a cape and become one. There will be no canning tomatoes in lieu of sleep. My message will never be ‘do more,’ rather, ’let’s do differently.’ 

My goal here is to increase the amount of genuine satisfaction in my life. I will find what matters to me and embrace it. Minimalism is my jam, so if it’s of no use, out it goes. My life is already full as I begin this project — if something comes in, something else must go out. 

This is my one sweet life. I want to author it.