My first question is always the easiest. It’s a welcoming, trivial slow pitch that follows me from room to room, namely: how should we be living Life while we’re here on earth? But upon further inspection I think the question itching at me more is: do I have anything to add to it? Invariably my initial reaction is of course I do, but lately I can’t help but fall into a cyclical cadence of then negating that reaction by comparing my own contributions to any- and everyone else with remotely similar passions, and immediately dismissing myself from the conversation. There are cerebral contributions like Study; people that dedicate their lives to furthering humankind’s knowledge, and consequently its impact, scope, reach, lifespan. There are evolutionary contributions like having children; where we can tell ourselves that we’re not only adding to the human race but also furthering our own family bloodlines, passing the torch and adding a page to history’s book in a way that’s very tangible and easy to point to. This reason for life is an easy one to lean on, after all if it weren’t for this aspect of our existence we wouldn’t have an existence at all. Then there are contributions of the Soul, or what we might think of as the Soul. Art, fulfillment, connection. These are harder to define, but that’s what makes them so painfully satisfying. In fact, the process of defining them alone is what they often consist of, like a fractal reflection made of infinite iterations of itself. Art loves meta-arting. Personally, I can tell myself that these might be the nearest answers to my question; that my ultimate value lies in creating moments of expression that might improve the lives of those around me in some small way and live on after my last breath. If I’m being honest, even that feels like a stretch. To think that anything I’ve ever made would have such a visceral and long-lasting impact on anyone else seems inflated, self-centered, and at its core, inaccurate. It’s been my experience that those sorts of impacts are few and far between. As people who create, we pour ourselves into our work the same way anyone does; on a spectrum. There are pieces we make that exit our hearts like light coughs, in a quick pulse that feels more like ripping off a sticky note than carving a statue. Then there are pieces that feel like wringing the last drops of pitch out of a tree trunk; they take every ounce of focus you have, leaving you feeling raw and deliciously empty. When you can externally incite that experience in someone else simply through conveying your own internal emotions, it’s an incredibly fulfilling thing. It feels important. It feels like a contribution. It makes me think that even if it only happens a few times on a scale no larger than my immediate friends and family, maybe that’s enough. 

Maybe part of what I struggle with when it comes to those connective moments is how impermanent they are. Logically my next thought is that permanence is a ridiculous standard to measure just about anything by. Nothing at all is permanent. The world itself isn’t permanent. When you get down to it permanence itself is really just defined by the fact that it does not (and never could) really exist. By that thinking, there’s value in any given moment simply because it occurs; no matter how brief, minuscule, or seemingly fleeting. If a song can make you smile the first time you hear it, it was worth making. If a friend sends you a photograph that made them think of you, there’s a connection there. A shared instant when the crux of both gazes happens to be something that was once in my head, not even materialized yet but waiting to be sewn together. I’d like to think that without what we do as artists, those moments wouldn’t exist in the same way they do now. Maybe they would, maybe not. Either way, our creations facilitate those moments, they provide the canvases for colors to populate — and isn’t that worth while? On a certain level, of course it is. Maybe what I’m having trouble with is accepting — or at least acclimating to — the limited scope of that level. Not that I believe there’s any pursuit under the sun that’s intrinsically all-important, but there was definitely a time when I would’ve stood by Expression and Artistic Creation as my true purpose. Now, I’m not sure. Call it aging, call it perspective. Label aside, it’s invariably tied to the most basic tenant of Life itself — change. Nothing is permanent. What was once a very clear target has since shrunk in my sights; maybe not in its value but certainly in its singularity. There are a lot more scrawls on the ledger now, and though each candy still tastes just as sweet on its own, the overall stock’s shares have been diluted by choices, lessons, years. 

Every time I feel my feet locking back into the well-worn footprints of my circular thinking, I come to the conclusion that maybe I’m just ready for something new. Music will always be in my heart, but does that have to look the same as I’ve always known it to look? Should it even? It can be a bit listless not knowing what the next iteration of that search for purpose will be. Drifting weightless in a wispy sea of barely-tactile body temperature thoughts, doubts, images, songs. But it can also be exciting. As a designer often times the most fulfilling projects are the ones with the most constraints. They force you to arch your back and angle your limbs in ways that feel unnatural and make you look at walking like someone who’s never known how to do it. There are inarguably way more boundaries now governing my hours, moves, priorities; and I feel them chafing at my process. Deep down I know the most powerful way to approach this new reality is to embrace it, lock into the new tempo, plant seeds and see what grows out of this new unfamiliar soil. Not only is that the only real way for my passions to survive and for me to keep my sanity, but in all likelihood it’s the only way for my work to remain engaging and for me to continue to connect with my community, friends, and family. All my sounding boards have evolved synchronously with Time itself, as have I, and so must my expression. Still, the thing tugging at my sleeve is being able to swallow the fact that the act of creation itself might end up being the real purpose for all this, and even then, only a few hearts may ever really tap into that experience in any meaningful way. In the face of uncertainty I’ll have to settle for that as enough, at least for now. Keep stepping into the unknown. Keep creating. Who knows what clarity the future may bring though. After all, nothing is permanent.