By Steven Robert Carlson
On December 21, 2012, I invited a small circle of friends to spend the day with me in silent meditation. We were under no illusions that the world was going to end, although I suppose there was a slight chance of that happening.
My friends and I knew that on that day — all around the world — thousands, probably even millions of people would be meditating. For whatever reasons a huge chunk of the world’s population had decided this day had meaning, and that it might be a turning point.
I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but I was certainly ready for a change. Am ready for a change. Am opening to change.
I have hated my work with a passion, and I have pursued my dreams passionately. Over the years, I have developed a knack for converting my every dream into a chore — a burden which becomes heavy and odious. Something to resist.
I have huge dreams that I am afraid of dreaming.
It seems every new dream becomes a nightmare — a tug of war between success and failure, love and hatred, hope and despair. It’s a twisted, tormented cycle that I resist by sitting on my hands.
I see this struggle as intensely personal. But it is not. The world is full of frustrated dreamers. Like so many other people I know, I hide my light from the world.
The world didn’t end on December 21, 2012, and I didn’t receive any answers. Only a question.
What if I could love my work?
What does it mean to truly put my heart into my work. Do I dare?