I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years. Some were glorious adventures while others hit big numbers on the suck-ometer. Cashier, actress, optometric associate, legal assistant, TV news reporter/anchor, vet tech, bank compliance officer, spokesperson—shoveling crappiocca (and dodging what was lobbed my direction) came with every position.
A N’Orleans street musician playing for pennies was asked why he spent hours playing for so little. The gentleman said, “Hey man, it’s what I do.” He’d found his bliss.
I meet lots of dissatisfied folks. They feel trapped or prevented in some way from finding their personal bliss. Maybe they want to adopt a pet but have allergies, or the $%^&*(!#% apartment won’t allow a furry companion. Or they’re faced with house payments, braces for the kid’s teeth, college tuition, replacing the hail-damaged roof or (fill in the blank) bills that enslave them to a hated 9-to-5 and have no time to write their novel.
Have you let fear of failure or embarrassment, hurt pride or anger over other folk’s jerk-icity keep you from doing what you love? Guilty as charged.
We all make excuses. It’s the human thing to do. But if something or someone tried to keep me from my fur-kids, from writing my heart, from shiny objects or my music, my God-gifted bliss—I’d by-heaven find a way over, through, or around. And shame on me for letting anyone try to take that away!
There’s a rush, a natural “right-ness” and physical Snoopy-Dance-‘O-Joy feeling in doing what is meant to be. It never gets old, but there’s no real destination, either. It’s a moving target that makes you reeeeeach just a bit beyond comfort level time and again.
I’m ready to stretch a bit. How ‘bout you? What is your bliss? What’s kept you from reaching out for that brass ring?
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