The work you and I do is art. This work allows us to navigate this canvas called life, where we make a small mark until the inkwell runs dry.
But sometimes it’s hard, isn’t it? There are days, days when I ask myself, “Why bother” or “What’s the point” or “Who cares”?
Maybe you have those days too?
There are days when I look at photos of me on stage or past scribbles I’ve made and think, “What right do I have to do the work that makes my heart sing?” “And, who wants to listen to your song anyway?”
Then there’s the doubt. Most days I think I’m an empty vessel making a loud noise that just irritates everyone. I feel embarrassed and ashamed that my creators went to such an effort for me, and I’ve fallen way short of the mark. I rail against myself for this.
But I keep doing this work because I’m compelled to. I wonder if it’s selfishness, self-involvement and ego that keeps me at it. Because, seriously, who cares about the clumsy scribble I make on this page called my life? Does it all matter?
But there are days when I feel what I do does matter.
I published an obscure piece of text in 2019 that sold less than 100 copies. But, even now I get notes from people telling me that my brief scribble meant something.
“Thank you for calming my soul.”
“Some pages felt like a homecoming and others made me uncomfortable as they tore and ripped at the fabric of my heart, breaking me open for the light of consciousness to enter.”
“Your extraordinary book invites multiple readings.”
You see, you can’t know the effect of your work, who will read it or who will care. Maybe no one. Maybe one person.
If you and I, at this moment, touch just one person, then that scribble of ours is a bridge of meaning that makes all the difference. It’s a conversation that can lead to courage. And, who knows where courage can take us?
Keep on doing your art, whatever it may be, because it matters. You matter.