My furniture operation is, at most, capable of paying the rent. That’s what I know. For now.
I have a business degree in entrepreneurship; I am granted no ignorance. I see our bills. I see my sales. The inadequacy of my operation is obvious, even more obvious when contrasted against my mountain of student loan debt. To look past these facts is a disrespect to my own education. The math doesn’t add up, and daily, my mind tells me so:
Seriously, you’re trying to make $50 off a coffee table? You have $200,000 in student loans! Wake the hell up! This isn’t going anywhere!
Still, this week, I restored a pair of side tables and a dresser. It’s not good enough yet, but it’s definitely better. My craft is progressing. And I’m not pulling the pin. I’m not going anywhere.
Because while I make furniture, I’m sane.
When I use the word sane, I use it relatively. I know psychosis, and this is not that. The sane I reference is the ability to live in a world where I no longer delude myself. This sanity is supremely valuable. I should know; I lived inside a delusion for eight years:
I can be myself while practicing medicine.
To continue forth in medicine (and attend medical school to begin with), I convinced myself this statement was true. If only I find the right specialty. If only I practice where I can surf. If only I ride my mountain bike every day. If only… I can be myself. I can be happy.
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My delusion did create meaning. It certainly crafted a purpose. These “if”s supplied endless adventure across our 50 states. But it was insanity. I chased a never achievable “if” for eight years.
Now, there’s just this. There’s just myself. There’s no “if” clause. But, how can I continue working at something so futile? How can I still pay the bills, save, and invest in my wife and I’s vision?
If I didn’t mention Steven Pressfield, would this be an essay of mine? In this week’s newsletter, he mentioned an idea from the Bhagavad Gita. It regards work and our relation to it:
Labor without attachment is worship.
When I look at what I truly know about my work, I enjoy the practices of writing and furniture. I enjoy getting better. I enjoy daily, incremental progress. I feel alive when I do these things. And historically, when I do things that evoke aliveness, good things happen. Not immediately, nor linearly, but eventually, something comes from these soul investments. Will it be in furniture? I don’t know. Will another opportunity arise that I never saw coming? Likely.
Yet, for things to work out, I must ardently mind the requirements to meet my wife and I’s goals. I must answer this bell, too. I cannot afford to enter into a different delusion.
Things will change. Positively? Maybe. Down the road my income may be substantial from my efforts. Or it won’t. Again, I don’t know.
Yet, I have something I can control. I can pull these shoots of work and worship, just as they’re beginning to meet sunlight. Then, I’ll know for certain that I will never know what could have been. This is regret. This is insanity.
So, word by word, brush by brush, I must trust in worship, pray for clarity, and believe in sanity.
What more can we do?
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(Photo Caption: Like I said, delusion yields adventure. This was one of them, as I chased waves across the globe to avoid thinking about my medical school derision.)
