Written during the Autumn of 2020, when it was hard for many of us to feel good about our work and our art. I'm posting now because, well, I'm always needing the reminder that I matter. The work matters. Every action and inaction matters.
Walking through Overton Park. It’s lovely. It’s autumn. You know how that feels, the dreaminess of a lovely autumn day after the oppressive summer. I’m thinking and listening to music, always. And I’m thinking about how hard it is to believe much of anything good about myself as it relates to music.
If I’m not really making it (if making it is about posting photos of your face on Instagram because it’s the only thing that drives traffic), then maybe I want out.
If making it is about how many followers you have on Spotify, then I’m obviously out.
If making it is about how much money your art adds to the bank account - out.
I’ve always thought and hoped I’m the kind of person who will play music no matter what, no matter how unrecognized, no matter how under the radar, no matter if "nothing works out."
Am I? Am I that person?
There’s a text coming through: “I listen to Miles of Green before all of my therapy appointments because it gets me in the headspace to share things. So thanks for that 💓”
Oh wow. It matters to someone? Then, it matters.
I don’t know what it means to make it. But I’m learning what it means to matter.