As I drifted into wakefulness this morning, I was suddenly aware of a faint stream of excitement. What, I wondered softly? 

With more awareness I remembered that today I wanted to build a few posts on my new Facebook public page, to add a line or two to round off a piece that I was writing yesterday. How come, I demanded now fully awake, how come this “small” stuff was filling me with joy, real joy? 

Ok, I’m sorry, I’m probably not making much sense. You see last evening I was reading the work of some spiritual luminaries who describe how they arrived at a sense of purpose in their lives, and as a result of that came to be doing their life’s work, with all the accoutrement of success, like bestselling books and solid income. 

I went to bed with a feeling of discomfort – how was I to figure out what my life’s work is? So onerous. If I hadn’t figured it out yet in my fifty-seventh year, was there really any hope? Heaviness, I felt.

But this morning, joy. Joy about writing pieces that don’t earn me any money, that at best are read by a few. Was joy the hint that there was something more to these small pieces? I’ve been scribbling all my life. My writing project has remained largely underground with forays into public spaces that I’ve regularly abandoned.

Therein lies the simple but courage-calling-forth dictate: Continue on consistently and build momentum. Layering effort is what builds critical mass. And probably only after some measure of success is achieved, do we speak of doing our life’s work without others laughing in our faces.

In the ruckus of actual, imagined or perceived rejection; or worse still as Elizabeth Gilbert names it – being ignored – the creating must go on.