We would leave the burgeoning once backwoods of Virginia and go places and do things and achieve more than the career military officer or FBI agent or FAA manager or GS 15 ranking that our fathers – fathers only because mothers were only just being allowed to spread their wings – had been content to be. We were actors and artists and writers and deep soul-searching waifs with dreams of glory. The dreams were less of glory, maybe. The dreams were more of…more.
We wanted more because more would be better than just this. We were different. We were special. We knew it individually and we knew it collectively. We would go out and make a difference. We would wow the world when given the chance.
Decades later, here we all are, ordinary. Oh, don’t take it so hard. It turns out there isn’t really anything wrong with being ordinary. Or maybe what I mean to say is that it turns out that we are all anything but ordinary. Those dreams we had which fueled our souls let us make it to here, wherever here might be.
Me? I’m content with my very blessed life of the ordinary. I never imagined I would be content to just be me. Or content to be the “me” in “me and mine.”
Ordinary turns out to be more than enough.