I fear that the more I make my life about my art, and less about my work, that my art will eventually become just that - work. All work and no passion. I need frequent reminders of why I do what I do; why I write. These reminders come in all forms. Such as the casual observance of passersby.
When Jacques and I were sitting on Lani Kai beach on O'ahu, along came a woman carrying a large stick, her two dogs walking beside her. A large mutt of a dog, and an ever-so-energetic Boston Terrier. These three characters began to play. Our attention was drawn towards the Boston as he began to dig around the stick his owner had brought. Ferociously. Under the stick, next to the stick, and even in places nowhere near the stick at all.
He dug and dug, in an absolute frenzy. He panted wildly, tongue curled up, cheeks drawn back in a manic grin as sand flew in all directions. He was turning in circles as he dug. The hole he created his pivot point, his spastic little body like a secondhand on a clock.
“Mad,” Jacques said, shaking his head. “Absolutely mad.”
“What is he digging for?” I wondered aloud. “He’s crazy!”
Then it hit me. He was crazy. Crazy in love with what he was doing in that moment. His digging wasn’t him looking for something. He wasn’t digging to get anywhere, or to accomplish any great feat. He dug simply for the love of digging.
What would the world be like, I wonder, if we were all like this mad Boston? Passionately pursuing things for no other reason other than the sheer joy of the pursuit?