The online application stared me down. All I had to do was click and my music would be on its way to almost-certain stardom… Or so the music label website promised me. I fidgeted, looked out the window of my second-story apartment. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sorely tempted. I was a musician, had spent years devoting my life to the study of performance, and this was what all twiddlers of strings wanted. To make money from something you love with every fiber, to play for crowd after crowd and be free of the struggle of a typical nine-to-five. To make that “big break” every “true musician” worth their salt wants.

Wasn’t it?

My friend poked her head in my room. “Have you sent it yet?” She asked. 

I shook my head.

“Why not??”

I think I knew, deep down, that music was more to me than a mere marketable skill. It was mindful, the careful and intense pleasure like a cup of tea on a rainy day. A borderline spiritual offering that moves, soothes, heals the brokenness of humanity. Sacred, even when lyrics breathed un-sacred things. Holy, even when the notes sounded anything but. I think I knew it wasn’t about playing for cynical crowds, or anybody, for that matter. 

Even then, I think I knew. Even my hesitating mouse-clicker finger knew my music wasn’t a simple commodity to entertain others.

But it took me a while to realize that was okay. That sometimes, the beautiful pleasure of a song sung for your own ears is the only validation needed.