Currently it’s two in the morning, and I’m out-of-town, at a hotel. I’m exhausted. I drove ten hours today, total, in order to attend a funeral. For a friend’s father-in-law. It was good, but I’m tired. And stuffed. After I checked into my hotel, I walked to a local diner and ate chicken and waffles. And two beers. Oh my gosh, it was so much food. (But that didn’t stop me from eating it.) The waiter said, “I’m not sure what part of the chicken that is.” I said, “I think it’s the whole chicken.” Seriously, my insulin is working overtime.

Tonight’s blog is number 750 (in a row), and next to the chicken and waffles, there’s only one thing I want to talk about. I’ll explain. At the funeral, a few friends asked me what I was up to these days. “Writing,” I said. One friend asked–out of curiosity–if that could be a full-time gig. “For some people it can be,” I answered. “And I hope that’s the case for me. Regardless, I’m willing to give it a shot and see what happens.”

Later I was introduced to a stranger, a man in a nice suit. After he shook my hand and got my name, his first question was, “What do YOU do?” And whereas I realize this is a common question, it set me on edge, since it felt like it was said not out of curiosity, but as a way to size me up. Well, wait. I trust my gut. It WAS said as a way to size me up. Anyway, I didn’t even mention writing because I didn’t think he could handle it. “I’m a dance teacher,” I said.

“You can make a living at that?” he said.

Feeling threatened, I stiffened my bottom lip, lowered my voice, and slowly said, “You sure can–believe it or not.” Then I just sat there. Later one of my friends said I handled it graciously, but I wish I’d said, “I JUST SAID I did it for a living, asshole, and I’m CLEARLY sitting here–still living.”

Of course, the guy was asking if I made any money, if I could pay my bills. I grant that we’re all curious about these sorts of things. I also grant I’m hypersensitive to the topic because I haven’t been working or getting paid as much as I used to, when I owned the dance studio. But this evening while eating my chicken and waffles, I pulled out the program from today’s funeral and thought about how simple it was–the name of the deceased, when they were born, when they died, where they were buried, who sang and played the music today, and Psalm 23. A man lived over sixty years on the earth, and that was it. Anyway, I thought about what emphasis that one guy put on “making a living” and then thought about how I’d feel if that phrase were etched on my tombstone.

Marcus Coker–He made a living.

Again, I know we all have to put bread on the table, but the older I get, the more important it is for me to make a life rather than a living. Said another way, since I’m already alive (we all are) and an expression of life itself, my goal–more and more–is to fully express my soul, spirit, or life. Whatever you want to call it. I told one of my friends today that there’s part of me that KNOWS I’m meant to be writing. I’m not saying I’m meant to make a million dollars writing, but I know that if I get to the end of my life and haven’t pursued this to the best of my ability, I’ll feel regret. I can’t say that about dance. I love it, but I don’t think it’s “why I’m here.” At the same time, it does bring me joy, just like writing does. And this is becoming my gold standard–to only do things I love. Not that I’ll never do something just for money, but I won’t get stuck there again. I won’t sell out again. Being poor sucks, but not being true to yourself sucks worse.

Making a living. What a ridiculous concept. I am living. You are living. We’re all living. The question is, “Are we living joyfully? That is, are we doing what brings us joy? (Are we living out of our hearts?) Or are you just paying our bills?”