Trading ambition for tenderness
Ever since my kindergarten teacher first asked about my life dreams, I’d proudly declare the ambition to become a full-time artist. And to become a full-time artist means building a wide enough audience to make enough money—which means generating and maintaining a pretty high degree of fame. Which means I’d hoped to be famous since I was six years old. That is, until my manuscript was universally rejected.
Now I know: I’ll never become a full-time artist.
And—thankfully—I’ll never be famous.
Because soon after letting go of that dream, I noticed a subtle but massive shift in the heart. One day I made a mistake and upset my partner, and I was able to apologize with unprecedented depth of humility. The remorse didn’t just speak from my lips. It blossomed from every organ, every bone, every single cell of my being—from somewhere deeper than ever before.
“Wow,” said Kyle. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this from you before.”
I was just as stunned. “I’ve never felt this before, either.”
And I’m certain that letting go of the full-time artist fantasy led directly to that moment.
Because even just the pursuit of fame required a certain hardness in the heart.
A protective shield of arrogance, which allowed the mind to assert again and again in the face of constant doubt and rejection and criticism: “My work is great. Pick my book, because it’s better than all those other books—and if you don’t like it, the problem must be you.”
When I renounced that pursuit, I also gave up its hard-heartedness.
Or as I told Kyle, “Between becoming a full-time artist or being a better partner to you, I choose you. I’d choose you a hundred million times.”
For both our sakes, I’d rather my heart be tender.
“May I never become famous. May fame not come to me.”
—Gotama Buddha, Anguttara Nikaya 5.30