El Ement
She's in her element." Right. Which element, exactly? Water? Air? Chemistry?
Or something else entirely? Either way, it must be something elemental — otherwise the act of immersing yourself in an element would never have that effect. She herself has no idea that she ought to be concerned with an element she apparently inhabits. Why would she? She’s simply there, and it feels normal.
The same could apply to him, of course. People concern themselves with elements — scientists, mostly — and many of them find themselves inhabiting one as well.
It doesn’t really matter which element certain people naturally splash about in. That includes those individuals who feel perfectly at home with and around numbers. Numbers, formulae, and the application thereof — that’s their natural habitat. They have a talent for numbers.
Others are eloquent, rhetorically gifted beyond the ordinary. They move through their element of language. They are language talents.
The particularly maddening ones are the multi-instrumentalists. They see an instrument, pick it up, put it to their lips, and master the thing on the spot. Those enormous musical talents.
Are these extraordinary people, simply because they know their way around certain things and happen to be exceptionally good at them? No. Not necessarily. They have simply found their element and feel at home there.
Others may never stumble across an element at all — a talent, that is, that suits them. One that might be living inside them. The discovery of possibilities that run in their blood, that fills them with enthusiasm, that makes time disappear, and that takes them entirely captive. Probably one of the very few genuinely attractive forms of captivity, I’d say.
For those who have claimed their element, I hold a particular admiration. They live their talent, and in all likelihood they have no idea how fulfilling their life has become as a result. For them, being talented is not a conscious realisation — they simply are. Their element is now music, painting, the social, rhetoric, politics, science, or parenthood. There is probably no better environment than the fitting, fulfilling element within one’s own existence.
When I look at the world of elements — setting aside water, air, fire, and earth — I see a vast sea, an ocean of talents I don’t have and never will. Does that sadden me, or make me envious? No, quite the opposite. I am overwhelmed by people — and other animals — who spend day after day doing things that fill them up. Their curiosity is constantly sparked, driving them to push their talent even further. The ambition to reach one’s own limits and then cross them — happiness guaranteed, all-inclusive.
May I briefly bring something personal to the table? My element is writing. Yes, reading comes with it, but the passion lies in the stories I write myself. My wide-eyed boyhood dream was already plainly visible in my first year of school: a Hermes typewriter, thousands of empty white pages, a desk beneath a weeping willow, a view of the lake or the sea, and the sound of hammering away at the keys for hours on end. I wanted to become a writer. I wanted to write books — no, I wanted to write better books than those of my favourite authors. That was my element. Though I didn’t know it then. And I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, so I told my living dream to anyone and everyone who wanted to hear it. Which was practically no one. What came pouring in instead, abundantly, were opinions about the writing life and its utter hopelessness. The people around me knew far more, and knew it with great certainty — they knew exactly what would never work about my deeply held, sacred dream.
Oh shit.
Naturally, I quietly buried the dream — the one where I’d someday experience my own book launch, sign my twenty-fifth novel, and recover from the sweat of my brow.
That was frustrating. To abandon a future vision of one’s own self.
But that was only ever the practical, visionary angle of what my element had to offer. Because I never stopped writing stories. Why would I? Who willingly gives up things that bring joy, that fill you up, that satisfy you, that challenge you.
That holds true today just as it did back in primary school.
I don’t write because I have to.
I write because I live.
And I write in order to think.
Both things I would be reluctant to give up.
My element and I are more than agreed on that.
