Yesterday, someone asked me if I’m paid for my writings on elephant journal. I found this interesting—as if receiving money for what I do makes it relevant, real and successful in the eyes of society.
Am I paid to be a mother? Am I paid to give hugs and kisses? Am I paid to hold my friend as she grieves? No, because giving love is the single most important job there is.
There is no amount of money that can compensate love’s work.
The transcendent words and life works of Hemingway, Rumi, Einstein or the teachings of any guru were not created with the intention of making money from their understanding or knowledge; they were created to share with the world, to help us grow, inspire us, teach us and give us understanding.
We need to survive in this world, so we make money to feed ourselves, clothe ourselves and shelter ourselves. We can make money in many different ways, it does not have to come from the fruits of our life’s work.
A couple of hours after this question wafted my way, I went to dinner and met a young woman, a brilliant artist who works as a waitress to supplement her income, so she can sit and create her art during the days. She is recognized for her gifts—she is not defined by her job.
I know I am doing what I am meant to do because I would teach and write for free every single day for the rest of my life and work anywhere I could find a job, to pay my way.
When we recognize our reason for living, we live our purpose because it is how we show love. Whether it is paid or not, doesn’t matter because love doesn’t need money to be recognized.
We must do what we love so others can benefit and receive the gifts we have to offer.
So, my answer is: No, I am not paid to write. I write to pay forward love as much and as often as I can, as I would never expect to be paid for giving a gift.
By Rebecca Lammersen
Editor: Brianna Bemel
hot on elephant
July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. How to Love a Woman who Scares You. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. I Still Think of You. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. An Open Letter to the Fixers. How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD. How My Sister’s Death Transformed my Self-Perception.