When I was very young, well under 15, my father drove me to a violin competition in Ithaca and during the drive, we talked about life. He said that every person needed to know two things about herself, what she’s good at and what her passion is. So I turned the question on him for his response, and he said, “I’m good with computers. My passion is your mom.”
Of course at that age I feigned to be utterly grossed out. “Ew. Your passion is Mom? Ew. And anyway, why is your passion a person? I thought it should be like a hobby or something.”
Figuring it’s been too many years since he responded to that question and the possibility that he has forgotten all about it being quite high, I asked him the question again yesterday. And his answer hadn’t changed. He said he was good with computers and all things related to electronics, and his passion was “that woman who is still sleeping upstairs. Can you believe she’s still sleeping? It’s almost noon.”
I told him that in the last decade and more, I have asked those two questions to countless people, and many of them have given touching answers. They said their passion was helping people, fostering change, making a difference in this world, art, literature, coding. I couldn’t recall anyone who had named a person as his or her passion.
“Well,” said my father, “when you say the word ‘passion’ and I think of all its definitions, when I think of what that word brings to mind, I see her. Nothing, and no one else. I think of what makes this world so colorful and beautiful to live in for me, and I think of only her. So then I conclude she must be my passion.”
Aw, Dad. You’re such a sap.
