I tend to obsess.
Right now, I’m listening to a song that’s been on repeat for the past thirty minutes or so. I find things I like and I attach. I keep buying the same Jack Purcell Converse shoes; when one pair goes, the canvas ripped and the sole a bare thing hardly keeping my feet from touching the actual ground, another pair arrives.
I like my habits. I hike the same trails, I drink my coffee from the same mug, and I listen to my favorite albums day after day. It’s not that I’m not open to new experiences; I very much am. I want to see the world, hear, smell, taste, and touch newness. But when something grabs me, makes me pay attention, and tells me something about myself, it quickly becomes a part of the repertoire. It nestles into the rotation of my small, comfortable life.
I think that idea might have scared me a few years ago. I feared repetition. I feared a smaller life. Not small in the sense of meaningless, but small in the sense of scale. For so long, I wanted to be the best at many things, I wanted to make a mark on history, I wanted to be grand. Now? I want my dog to rest beside me while I read a book and drink an above-average bourbon.
Granted, it’s probably a book I’ve already read and a bourbon I’ve bought several times before. But why not? The world is rich and wide, sometimes lovely and often harsh. Uncovering something tiny, something to cherish within my tiny life, seems like a worthy pursuit. Why not obsess a little when I find it?