Words: Clare Dwyer Hogg
Illustration: Barney Beech
What about this idea: we all have something we’re good at, and we should do it.
More complicated than it sounds – or not? Both: very simple and very complicated.
For starters, here’s something complicated: the notion of having a talent has been warped. The kind of thinking that surrounds the word is similar to what the entertainment industry is predicated on. An ‘A-lister’ versus ‘D-lister’ mindset. That if you can’t sing, haven’t invented something, find it impossible to lift one leg higher than your waist, or aren’t at the top of your field – then you missed the boat where talent is concerned. Or you didn’t have a boat to miss in the first place. In other words: some people have talent, some don’t.
This is rubbish. Here’s the simple part: everyone has talent. Also simple: it usually isn’t the sort of talent that makes TV, or garners applause from stadiums.
What makes the simple complicated is the mental assault course we set for ourselves around our talents. This means that often what we’re good at doesn’t see the light of day. Or it does see the light of day, but because we don’t consider it a talent, it goes unnoticed. Many people feel that they don’t have anything they’re particularly good at. They feel this while unconsciously dismissing what they’re particularly good at because they think it isn’t good enough. Or exciting enough. Or important enough.
Really, it’s just old thief comparison rearing his ugly head again. I wrote about him in an earlier column: when you compare yourself to someone else, it’s like using them as a mirror with which to see your own deficiencies. The result: you don’t see what’s good about them, and you only see your own perceived lack. To give your talent space, you first have to kick out comparison.
Sometimes talents appear puny, because they’re at the inaugural stage. We don’t look at a new baby and think because it can’t talk or walk that it’s not worth investing in
I know it is hard to do this. Most of us exist in a noisy paradigm surrounded by external sources that shout loudly about what talent is. But say we managed it. And then, in isolation, we were able to really see what we’re good at. Imagine being able to stand quietly, to dig down into ourselves and think – what makes me tick? What do I enjoy? When do I feel I’m using what I’ve got to give?
If, in the quiet place, you can be honest about what you have, I believe this is the beginning of something very important. It’s only when you know what you’ve got, that you can really use it.
What does this mean in practice? It certainly doesn’t mean being the very best at something. And talents aren’t just things you get paid to do. Does this sound depressing? It shouldn’t: it is actually the opposite – weirdly freeing. Weirdly, because at the beginning it does feel weird to be figuring out your own talents away from everything else. But it starts to become less weird – and definitely not depressing – if you then take the next step, which is how to really utilise the talents you’re recognising.
This part is the equivalent of very carefully opening a bag of seeds, in the shelter of your own being, and spreading them out before you. Seeing they exist, even though you don’t know what they’ll become. That’s when the choice comes. As you’re holding on to those seeds, ready to plant, it will be hard not to notice other people tending oak trees they planted years ago (or, seemingly minutes ago, with some help from miracle-fertiliser you don’t know about). You could look at your nothing-seed, and throw it back in the bag.
Don’t. Sometimes talents appear puny. That’s because they’re at the inaugural stage. We don’t look at a new baby and think because it can’t eat solids, or talk or walk – and can barely see – that it’s not worth investing in. Yet so often that’s what we do with our own talents. We put the seed back in the bag, and bury it deep within ourselves, rather than plant it in the outside world.
It’s obvious that without nourishment, nothing changes for the seeds, and nothing changes for us. Planted and fed and watered and nourished and pruned, though – that’s a different story. This isn’t an airy-fairy feel-good thought. To embrace it requires work and mental agility. We’re so dulled by the grind of routine and being busy that we can rush past our own selves every day without noticing what we’ve got. It takes effort to stop and think and look, and decide to plant and tend and water. It’s work, but with returns.
You might think that it’s unreasonable to imagine you can do all this in isolation from the outside world, in ignorance of all the other sparkling talents other people seem to have. You’re right. It’s the first stages that need to happen in the dark. And then – there you are, in full view, with your little plant growing. And yes, you’re surrounded by all the flashing screens depicting people with louder brighter shinier gardens. Yet I believe that if our focus is on making the very best of what we personally have, we won’t care. Much. OK, it can take a bit of time. But the promise is that if you appreciate your own talents, you will by default also value the stage of the journey that you are on.
And this: the fulfilment of investing in what you have is immeasurably greater than watching other people invest in theirs while yours crumble away into time, unnoticed.
