Intro: Why am I here?

this blog will soon be connected primarily to bluetrufflemusic.com, which is why it’s referenced like it is.

Before this year, you wouldn’t have found the term “jazz journalism” planted in any part of my consciousness. If I had conceptualized it in passing, before it forced its way to the forefront of my mind where it lives now, I might have described it as the unpromising joint of equally risky career paths. I can only define what it’s come to mean to me now with such awe: I really might be starting to think it’s the reason I’m here.

This “here” is more of a “Here”, the big existential “Here of all heres”, not bluetrufflemusic.com. Although, the story of how I came into this specific job as a jazz journalist still fills me with wonder. But that’s a story for another time.

Like any twenty-year-old, I will sometimes ponder why we’re all Here. But searching for a “life purpose” is a depressing trap that I have mostly been able to avoid panicking over. I’ve trusted I’m alive for some reason and never could relate to artists who were driven by “leaving something behind” so that they “remain alive after they die”. Everything still dies eventually, even art.

But at the start of this summer, I had my first experience in receiving a severe blow to my faith, the part of me that keeps the fear of not doing enough at bay. In the simplest of terms, I was supposed to be far away from home helping people, funded by believers who cared for me and wanted to see this mission thrive. When a traumatic experience brought me home a month earlier than planned, I was the most depressed I had ever been in my life. I questioned why God would have me put in dozens of hours to prepare for this trip, gather a substantial amount of funds from faithful people, and shut the whole thing down before it had barely begun.

My progression in processing this sudden change was slow, and abysmally lonely. One of the many uplifting aspects of believing in God, for me, is that it’s hard to ever feel truly alone. In the aftermath of coming home, I didn’t feel such a presence, and I was far too down to work through the pain with loved ones. But another uplifting aspect of keeping that precious trust in God is knowing deep down — and in this circumstance, I had to reach deep, deep down — that everything happens for a reason. So the one thought keeping me afloat was this: I need to discover why He sent me back home.

I also soon realized my inherent “purpose” had dropped out from beneath me. Even though this past semester showed promising steps in journalism, I was still planning to do mission work after college. After this experience, I don’t think I could just by emotional association. Mission work is a beautiful thing, but it is not my calling anymore. So in my mind arose another question, that dreaded one I could previously avoid: why am I Here?

Day by day, trying to make myself feel purposeful looked like a few different things: I’d walk for hours on the beach, or meet a stranger for coffee, or drive to a park just to read. I sought to have any ounce of conversation that would be enough to convince myself I was of value being back home, as if complimenting a stranger was as important as repairing a house, which I would have been doing on the trip. Once this wasn’t enough anymore, I gave up seeking a meaningful external conversation with someone and thought about how I could improve my own life.

This is when I realized that I had gained so much more time to do the remote work I do for Blue Truffle Music. I was hired in May to write articles for this website, among many other tasks that I’m grateful to gain experience in. Doing what I do for this site behind the scenes felt more and more rewarding, and it was starting to click that I had a purpose in coming home: going all-in on jazz, yes journalistically but in my playing and education, too. To remain constantly seeking the next interview, chasing the next project, memorizing the next tune, learning the next technique, reading the next biography, playing with the next person, and so on has kept me grounded, and now it’s helping me soar.

Every person studying jazz in college like I am will tell you they’re not practicing enough, not playing enough, not gigging enough, et cetera. But the imposter syndrome I felt being in the program cut worse than that, as I knew I didn’t want to live the life of a gigging instrumentalist (I’m a short woman that plays the upright bass, and I’m not the biggest fan of subways at night). And where I lacked this motivation to become a great player, I was finding my way with how on Earth I’d still justify being a music major. Because I trusted a reason would show itself, it’s working out.

Today, July 2, is the day of what would have been my return from the trip, and I can count all my blessings in jazz journalism that I wouldn’t have experienced if I were elsewhere. I refuse to spoil my own story, but there are exciting meetings, emails, phone calls, interviews, and conversations in the works, and I finally feel like I’m holding myself to the expectations I yearned to instinctively have, two years ago, when I was just getting serious about jazz. But again, that’s a story for another time. The point is, I am now doing the things I said I’d do, without distraction, and it feels good.

Lastly, I must acknowledge that these developments in my career are not to be taken as support for an argument to shut out God. I don’t know who He is in your head, but I hurt for you if He’s evil– I can now say that I understand what that feels like. But I promise you that I know a God that’s good and graceful. This whole ordeal leaves me believing that trusting in His purpose simply means to not push against the tide. It is not up to me to decide how important it is that a person could have their life saved with a compliment, or if they’re meant to feel hatred for a prompt to waste their breath with a “thanks”. I was important to God all the while I was home, the same as I was when I was away. In that, I am fully healed.

So I really think this is the reason I’m Here.