Stuck

I can do the work for twenty-one hours of classes.  I can show up when I'm supposed to, I can meet the deadlines, and I be awake when I need to be.  I can do quality work for a part-time job and effectively communicate with my supervisor.  I can contribute to my fraternity, showing up to meetings and participating in service activities.  I can fellowship with other believers every Sunday morning and throughout the week as we worship the God we live for.  I can go to bed at 12:30 and wake up at 5:00 every day, and I can love doing what I do.

But I can't become the artist and the musician I want to be at the same time.  I don't have time to come to the music library and pore through bassoon literature, evaluating the evolution of my instrument's place in the orchestra throughout history, or listen to recording after recording, analyzing the professionals' tone and expression for future emulation.  I don't have time to spend hours in the art museum, studying brush strokes and line quality and finding deeper meaning in abstract forms.  I don't have time to hide out in a studio or practice room for hours on end, exploring the very arts to which I have dedicated my life.  I can never obtain my full potential in either area while devoting myself to the other.  I just can't.

And yet, I still can't picture my life without either one.  I will always be an artist, and I have so much to learn, but it's the musical moments that I live for, that change lives.  I could be so great at either one if I totally engrossed myself, but together ... checking items off of a list isn't good enough.  God put me in one of the only places on earth where I have virtually unlimited invaluable resources at my fingertips, but it's like one of those candy machines in an arcade, where you control the claw as it digs deep into a sea of fun-sized candies, but they start to fall out of grasp, and you end up with nothing but a bag of M&Ms and a pack of SweetTarts.

The good news is, I don't have to make a decision tonight.  Nor this week, nor this month.  This library will close in eight minutes, I'll go downstairs to practice, and life will go on.  The snow will still sparkle on the ground outside, and it will still take me approximately three minutes to walk home tonight.  There is some comfort in certainty.