We Take Ourselves With Us, Wherever We Go

When I was a kid, I knew I was going to be a writer.

Because I already was one.

Writing wasn’t my dream, it was my dominant reality. I can’t
remember not doing it. It was the only territory I could always go to. The only
instrument I could always just play. The one activity that, when I did it, put me back together again. If writing wasn’t the answer, I rephrased
the question.

Fortunately, that wiring never changed.

Certainly, what I
write, who I write for, how I write and where I share my writing has changed––and will continue to change
with every phase of life––but ultimately, why
I write will not change.

Because I can’t help myself. What I do is the only thing
that makes sense to me.

The point is, focus isn’t about activity, it’s about
identity.

Gaining complete clarity about who we are, refusing to be
anybody else other than ourselves, embracing our natural inclinations in every
situation and doing the only thing that feels right to us.

Focus isn’t about hammering one nail all our lives.

It’s about hammering lots of nails, one way, all our lives.