Word of the day: Commitment
This idea really struck me while I was in the shower. I sincerely don’t know why, but this seems to be the place where most of my ideas flow.
…But back to the point.
Commitment is a thing that I now (thankfully) understand. It’s no longer just a word.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten married, yet. I’m constantly asked that when I meet up with family members I haven’t seen in a while.
It’s not that I’m afraid of that commitment.
It’s honestly because commitment is nothing to play around with. Commitments are life-changing.
It’s a tie between you and something (or someone) else, for however long it requires.
Writing Is No Different
I didn’t commit to writing to not write.
I committed to writing because I wanted to share my experiences and opinions, my idea of events and happenings from my own perspective and background.
Plus, I wanted to work. And writing allows me to do that.
But I don’t know too many people who claim to be writers that don’t write, singers that don’t really sing, musicians that play no instrument.
Besides the titles, it’s the actions that matter most. Actions make the title, not the other way around.
Titles mean nothing without the actions that back them up.
Writers write. Singers sing. Musicians play the snot out of their instruments.
That’s how this works.
If you commit to something you commit to that thing — fully. Not half-way. Not sort of. FULLY.
When a person truly commits to something, they devote the majority of their time and attention to it. Their energy is expelled on that — whatever “that” is.
When a person fully commits to something, they see the benefits of that true commitment — the respect, the attention, all of it.
And it’s not always because of who they are. It’s mainly because of what they’ve done — the actions that they produced.
Playing both sides of the fence only spoke volumes about what I stood for as a person. It didn’t require me being completely aware of it, either.
Both Sides Require Something
Moments when I feel like I should be on the other side of things — the side that has nothing to do with writing — are moments I find myself pondering about what it would cost me to be on that side.
Because no side is free.
No matter what side I choose to be on, it comes with the following decisions I have to make.
If I determine that I will not write anymore, then I’d have to find something else I’d have to commit to.
However, to commit to writing means I have to write. It’s not rocket science.
Thing is, I cannot be on both sides at once.
If I want to reach my full potential, there’s no all-in, half-out mentality.
Whether I realize it or not, those two things don’t mix.
Jobs where I “committed” to working with an “I’m kind of all-in” mentality led me to leave not too long after starting.
I eventually found something wrong with it, some tired excuse for quitting, because I wasn’t honestly all-in.
And it’s okay with not being all-in. That’s not the issue, here.
The issue begins when I commit to doing something I was never fully committed to in the first place.
It takes me being honest with myself, realizing that I am not putting my all into something, to put it down.
But I am left with that difficult decision due to my inability to think about the commitment well before it was even made.
In this game of life, I either do or I don’t.
If I’m not fully committed, I’m better off not doing it. That is time and energy that could be spent elsewhere.
I should save that for something else I may be genuinely committed to — that thing I can’t stop thinking about, without all the forcing that other thing required.
One Sunday afternoon, I remember thinking about how bad I wanted to learn how to play the piano. The sound coming out of that thing during worship service drove me crazy, even though I was on the drums.
That evening, I went home, got out an old keyboard my older brother had lying around the house and started playing.
I didn’t know how, but I knew I wanted to learn.
I made up in my mind that day that I was about to learn how to play this thing, no matter how much work it took.
I researched everything I could about it. I watched YouTube videos for hours, read books about it for months.
Most of my days were spent thinking about how to play it. I banged on that thing every day until my fingers were tired, and that is far from an exaggeration.
I couldn’t wait to get home during those days. Even while I was doing something extremely irrelevant to music, I was thinking about chord progressions and major scales.
It had gotten so bad that some of my siblings started thinking something was wrong with me.
I’d go back to my room and close the door because of all the noise. I needed to focus on that and that alone, at least until I knew how to play.
And that’s exactly what I did.
But it had to have my full attention.
It all started with a deep desire, a craving to learn.
That desire required action. So, I picked it up and started playing.
My ignorance did not stop me from doing. I realized that I’m always ignorant of a thing until I put in the effort to find out more about it.
I was determined to work as hard as it took…and then some.
Basically, I became an addict. I couldn’t function without it.
That’s the cost of being committed to something. This is the cost of being on the side of doing — the side that requires the actions.