It’s much too dangerous to think about passion. Not the chintzy, wussified run-of-the-mill slag kin to the sappy dronings of today’s lyricists, or the crude rhetoric eternized in tasteless soap operas; not even the sickening popularity of tawdry mantras immortalized on hats and t-shirts. No not these; but true passion, real passion is like a deep, throaty hunger that kicks and rages at your innards, feeding on your convictions until quenched.
For many of us, the word passion tends to evoke feelings centered on romance, flirting or love. With Valentine’s Day being right around the corner, it’s absolutely understandable. But for some of us, passion is that “deep, throaty hunger that kicks and rages at our innards, feeding on our convictions until quenched.” It’s that thing we carry in the pit of our gut even when everyone or everything around us compels us to let it go. I want to have a baby. I hope to finally start a business. I desire to go back to school so I can do what I love. I want to lose weight and be healthier. Hopes. Dreams. Passion. They sing loudly in our ears and burn incessantly in our minds. They flicker refusing to be extinguished by whispers of doubt and seemingly insurmountable odds. Like embers they glow radiating light that warms us to our bones, keeping our desires lit and ready to ignite.
Hopes. Dreams. Passion. We all have them. But do we all pursue them? Do we give them due commitment? Do we give them a voice?
For some, the answer is no and it hurts. Correction, it stings—it burns like stubbing the same toe for the umpteenth time. For others, the answer is comprised of yeses, maybes, some days and one day. For us, of the deep throaty hunger variety, passion is fuel. We eat it, talk it and live it even in the face of opposition. We feed off it until our convictions are quenched—until our hope in the unseen is actualized. We bear its weight. Proudly. Gladly. We orchestrate our fate. Cautiously. Wearily. We live our passion. And that is our greatest joy.