Fear.

It's ugly. It can cow us into believing that our dreams have no worth. It's dangerous stuff.

For the last month, I have been cowed. It's not that I don't think that I have the talent. I do. Well, some anyway. But sometimes I get so worried that I won't be able to find a snazzy, well-paying job, once I can actually work legally, that I think, "Oh I had better focus my energy on beefing up skills in a sector that I am dead sick of and am becoming less and less enchanted by everyday." By that I mean, web design.

I was in love with an idea of myself moving back to Paris, getting a design job not unlike the one I did in L.A., being one of those annoying bobo hipsters with her cool job and her cool clothes and blah blah blah. At first, it wasn't even design. I wanted to work at my friend's creative consulting and translating firm. She made it clear, finally, that she wouldn't hire me. That was a big let-down. I had pinned so many of my dreams, so much of myself on that job. When I didn't have that anymore, I was sure that I should go roaring back into the design world. I'd go freelance. Well, since January, every project I have worked on has gone belly-up for one reason or another. Meanwhile, every time I work on music and put it out there into the world, I get a lot of love. Why do I repeatedly refuse to listen to what the universe is telling me?

Fear.

Plain and simple.

This weekend, my fiancé was on eBay and he found a Squier (Fender P-Bass design) for a pittance. If the bidding stays that way, I may end up with it. And I certainly wouldn't grumble even if it does have a c-style neck (*grumble*). The more I have thought about having a bass again, the more I feel a circle completing. I love to write songs, and I love to play guitar and ukulele and just about any string instrument you throw at me. But I am a bassist first. I will always be a bassist first. The fear is subsiding as I realize I can sit in with people, I can do sessions again. I know it's not the best bass on earth. But it's a functional bass. I'd love to have one of John Entwistle's old sunburst p-basses or one of his lovely salmon pink ones, or even my old pre-CBS, solid body, delicious sunburst p-bass (which now lives in my brother's recording studio), I hunger after a real Fender P-bass. In due time, in due time. For now, all I need is something functional, one that's cheap enough that, if it gets stolen, I won't cry my eyes out..much. I have become completely smitten by the idea of having a bass again, playing again, joining together with the band.

I remember when I found out John Entwistle had died, my hands CRAVED a bass. Besides tears, my first response was to find one and play the hell out of it. I need one again. Badly.

I am making a commitment to my music. A re-commitment. It isn't an easy path. There is no garuntee that anything will grow from it other than my own personal happiness and satisfaction. But that's a start! I can't keep ignoring what I have seen to be true in my life. Music is my calling. It always has been. Not stardom, fame or money necessarily, but music. When I make music, I am happier and life goes well by and large. When I don't, I am miserable and everything falls to shit.

Which would you choose?