What is my purpose?

The duck circles around the pond, creating ripples as she does. Fish are swimming beneath, but it’s as if she’s oblivious to their presence while circling restlessly, living the same story on repeat

~ until she stops.

And the ripples stop too.

Is it normal for ducks to be alone?

Ducks are not solitary creatures and will become depressed and lonely quite easily, which will make it difficult for them to survive or thrive.

The duck pauses in the middle of the pond; my heart pauses too.

Courage comes from a Latin word which means ‘of the heart’. To become your authentic self, you must learn to quiet down the chatter of the mind and listen to your heart. That’s what they all say: the influencers, the philosophers, the gurus, the self-help books. Stop following your head and follow your heart’s purpose instead.

“What is my purpose?” I speak to a shadow that creeps across the curtain in the middle of the night. It sort of looks like a fetus growing in the womb, its head hanging low as if disappointed with the delay. It begins to resemble Voldemort in the Goblet of Fire so I quickly flick my bedside lamp on and draw the curtain to ensure it’s just a shadow. As I do, I catch eyes with you. Our picture stuck to the wall: two infants laughing and playing together. The thought that the weird shadow could be you brings momentary comfort, so I ask again:

What is my purpose?

Ducklings are loving siblings and communicate with each other before hatching.

Do you ever look back at your childhood dreams with sadness? I do. But it’s not the kind you think, not like a regretful sadness, but more of a sadness for how innocent and naïve I was. So caught up in this future fantasy of ‘happy’, chasing the same green light as Gatsby. I dreamt of living in New York. Grabbing a coffee on my way to work as a columnist for a magazine, one day advancing to an editor. Attending rooftop parties with friends who were yet to be found. Living with my boyfriend and dog I was yet to meet. Breathing in the beauty of a bustling city. Flying home to family over Christmas or they’d visit me and we’d skate around laughing. I rarely shared my dreams with others, never wanted them to be stolen. Hundreds of unanswered magazine internship emails tried to pop that bubble, but I was too stubborn to let the states escape me.

“I believe if you try hard enough, you can achieve anything,” I advised my Hispanic-American housemates. One of them muttered something that I couldn’t understand but if I had to guess must’ve been a polite version of ‘stupid white bitch’, which I would now also say to my younger self (with a gentle pat on the back). At twenty, I got accepted to study ‘Literary Journalism’ at the University of California, Irvine. I fell in love with writing about injustice. “This is my purpose,” I cried to Mum on the phone as if I’d finally discovered that happy childhood fantasy. But I soon learnt that not everyone has equal opportunity in the land of opportunity. That some surnames and skin colors are worth more than others to employers. And that my American dream and postcode was no longer one I longed for.

“Most people don’t want to be blown around and moved, facing life’s whirling wind of contradiction and love.“

What about when life blows you around regardless of what you want?

At 23, I left Ireland to backpack around Asia, but never made it further than Hanoi, Vietnam. The longer I stayed, the harder it was to leave. The ‘I’ll be a writer and backpacker someday’ dream kept being postponed to ‘another day’. I fell in love with holding space for students. Teaching teenagers English brought so much joy, excitement and comfort to my life.

“You’re definitely meant to be a teacher,” my housemate said when I arrived home laughing about my students’ Shrek performances. Her words took my heart by surprise, and my heart took me by surprise as it dropped down, blocking me from speaking or moving forward.

Is this my purpose?

Before I had time to answer, life got in the way and answered for me.

“Cowards die many times before their death. The valiant never taste of death but once..“

I wheeled my brother outside and we watched an airplane fly by as he tugged on a cigarette.

“Make sure to enjoy your life, Saoirse,” he said, burning a hole in my heart.

“I’m enjoying it right now with you,” I said, and it was true.

But his brain tumor was stealing precious seconds as it grew, crushing his future fantasy of happy. And yet, he still laughed and smiled and fought with me each day until one day. His body was moved from his bed to a wooden box.

What is the purpose of all this?

I screamed at the dark sky. At the stars. At the trees. At the planes.

Do ducks mourn the loss of a friend?

I’ve found that the intensity of their grief, like with humans, depends on the type and level of the bond, how long they have known each other, and very importantly if they saw the death.

As the duck stares into the abyss of nothingness, tears leave my eyes for the first time in a while.

Why do I feel so alone in a pond that’s crowded with other people?

What is my purpose?

The duck wiggles her bum, dunks her head underwater, eventually paddling to the shore. She walks onto land. My heart sings as she stands from above, looking back at the pool she emerged from.

I stand up too, laughing at the insanity of feeling so connected to the rest of humanity through this duck. Maybe Tony Soprano was onto something afterall.

Can ducks get lost?

Free-range ducks will explore and wander around. Getting lost is unlikely, but not impossible.

References:

  • A ton of google searches about ducks

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