Music is my mission.
So said a seventy-five year old jazz musician on break during a gig.
What’s your mission?
Dunno, you say.
What do you mean you don’t know? You know. You know. Get past the squirrely thoughts.
When you’re in dharma, you’re living your purpose, you know the reason you’re here on this big blue sphere and you’re living it, you’re digging your passion, you’re putting forth in the world whatever it is that juices you up in all the good ways.
What’s your juicy passion?
Be-Bop. Riffing on all things political. Well-thumbed books. Cowboys. Vintage fashions. Watching golf on TV. Dagwood sandwiches.
Who cares, you say.
Be-bop loving, cowboy-riding, political fashionistas who golf, read, and nosh on gargantuan sandwiches.
You! That’s who.
You’re doing your thing, you’re singing your birdsong, you’re tweeting your tune, you’re blogging your big bad be-bopping bottom and you’re not taking any of it with you when you’re gone because you’ve left it out here, where it matters.
That kid in you who believed in the word possible, the one you drop-kicked to Fantasyland when you skidded into Realityville and possible became impossible; when you started paying the rent oh, that—that kid in you wants you to grab those dreams again. Not the bad ones; not the dreams about the wall heater lurching after you—the good ones. The ones where your mission was music, or tiddlywinks, or driving a miniature ball down a swath of green. Pull those dreams on like old pajamas, the snuggly kind with feet, and go forth. Make your mark. Piss on your hydrants. You can do it.
Listen to the voice inside that says you can, and ignore the other one, the one with the breath of a thousand dead dreams.