To What End

In my morning pages recently, I started questioning some of the things I’ve been doing (as in, genuinely questioning, not necessarily doubting). The phrase I repeated over and over was “…to what end.”

I’m making art every day, but to what end.

I’m starting to run again, but to what end.

I’m writing every day, but to what end.

It only struck me after writing several of these that I was assuming that there needed to be an end, which is something I don’t do for the most worthwhile things in life. The most human things.

I’m showing my wife that I love her, but to what end.

I’m acting kindly towards others, but to what end.

I’m helping someone I care for, but to what end.

It sounds absurd to write those last three, but we so often ask it about the things that we do for ourselves. I like to believe that we’d ask it less if those things felt truly aligned with who we are.

For me, writing and art-making and storytelling feel that way, which is why I had such a visceral reaction to my own questions. What do you mean, to what end? Because I have air in my lungs!

There are some things that can feel as essential as breathing, and those things can be very specific to us. They don’t need an end because we don’t plan on stopping, and we don’t need a reason to start.

As soon as I recognized that, it felt as though a weight had lifted off of me. There’s no pressure to do these things that we feel drawn to. We don’t need external validation to continue doing them.

I’m going to replace the phrase I kept using with a better one. To assume that I’ll do them for as long as I’m able and interested in doing so. Not “to what end”, but “because it fulfills me.”

I’m making art every day, because it fulfills me.

I’m starting to run again, because it fulfills me.

I’m writing every day, because it fulfills me.