Enough

Light in the Darkness—original alcohol ink by Estora Adams

Enough…

I want only to be enough.

Enough of an athlete to be healthy

Enough of a chef to feed a tasty meal to my loved ones.

Enough of an artist to create beauty.

Enough of a writer to stimulate a mind.

Enough comfort in times of heartache and trial.

Enough support when life knocks a person down.

Enough love when hate seems to prevail.

Enough courage when fear stops me from taking action.

Enough medicine to break death’s greedy grip today.

Enough. Enough. Enough.

I want only to be enough.

This desire seems simple, I suppose. Maybe it even seems to be setting my sights too low. But I’ll tell you that it scares the hell out of me.

There was a time in my life when I wanted to be the best—at everything. I think part of me thought that would give me value of some sort. I’m not even sure when that drive to be at the top of every game went away, but it has gone—like the last wisps of smoke from a cooling chimney. I think when one strives to be the greatest at something, failing, while heartbreaking, still provides a measure of success. Maybe I wasn’t the best in the world, but by trying to be, maybe I became the best in my state or county or town. Or maybe I was still just really stinking good. Despite not being one in seven billion, maybe I was one in ten thousand, and that’s nevertheless pretty damn impressive for some things. So if I failed at being the greatest at something, that didn’t mean that I didn’t fill the need.

Striving to be enough, though, that seems to me to be living out on the ragged edge. Being at the top of a list implies that the field is narrowed enough to have a list. It’s one aspect of life. But I want to be, in all things, enough, and failing at that, by definition, means that for someone at some time, I wasn’t, and I let them down.

I know, intellectually, that I cannot be enough of everything for everyone, however, so I am left with the knowledge that not only will I never be the best, but I also will never be enough.

I have managed to write myself in a circle in this post and have managed to create for myself another conundrum. I suppose no matter the goal, at some point, one will face failure. We can’t stand on the mountain top forever. Maybe as with most things, it’s not the endpoint that matters but the quest. Maybe, as long as I try to be the best me I can be, that in and of itself will be enough.

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        Unless otherwise noted, all material--written, photographic, and artistic--is the original work of Estora Adams. All rights reserved.