A Splendid Torch: On Purpose, Work, and the Joy of Life
“Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch…” Shaw’s words struck me like lightning the other day. They reminded me what it means to live with purpose, to work toward something meaningful, and to pass that torch to the next generation.
The other day, while sifting through more than 400 old tabs on my phone, I stumbled across a quote from George Bernard Shaw that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t just the beauty of the words—it was how directly they spoke to where I am in life right now.
Here’s the passage I found:
“This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.
I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for a moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to the future generations.”
Fuuuuuck, eh? Sometimes you just need to hear this.
Most mornings I wake up to a long list of menial tasks, the kind that scatter my attention and make me feel purposeless. But Shaw’s words remind me that every small thing amounts to something larger. I am a force of nature, even in the little things—serving my family, supporting my community, creating artwork that I hope carries meaning.
Art, to me, is part of that “splendid torch.” It’s not just self-expression—it’s a way of reaching for something important, of trying to leave behind work that resonates. I watch my daughter grow every day, learning lessons and skills she’ll carry forward, and I see that same principle at work: each effort builds a toolbelt for the future.
Shaw gets right to the heart of it: joy comes from recognizing a purpose we believe in. And that purpose evolves. If I were simply hammering nails into rotten boards day after day, I would hope to find a deeper calling. But when my time and energy are spent on something meaningful—something that contributes—it feels like life is expanding instead of shrinking.
We waste so much energy trying to soothe ourselves, but the truth is, contentment often arrives after a task well done, after we’ve poured ourselves into something bigger than our own ailments. Shaw’s reminder cuts through the noise: our mission is not to cling to the candle but to carry the torch.
That’s my hope as an artist—that the work I create will not only matter in the moment but will burn brightly for those who come after me. One day at a time, a mountain rises.
Setbacks, Curiosity, and the Pursuit of Love
Setbacks are illusions, signposts rather than barriers. Life and art both challenge us, but through curiosity and reflection, we discover meaning—and love.Setbacks are illusions, signposts rather than barriers. Life and art both challenge us, but through curiosity and reflection, we discover meaning—and love.
Some days test us harder than others. Setbacks are never easy—and here I am again, feeling like I’ve been pushed a step back.
In the ICU, I had already dealt with the frustration of losing the use of my right arm thanks to an IV placed right in the crook of my elbow. The relief of having it removed didn’t last long—now a medline in my bicep leaks red a day later, tender and restrictive. I can’t even lift my daughter. That loss of simple function puts stress on both my wife and I.
Yet these moments force me to return to what I’ve been writing about lately: the importance of rest, of taking the time to be still. In life, I’ve learned to approach disappointments with a degree of acceptance, but they still sting. It reminds me of an old Chinese idiom: complacency serves the old Gods. I’ve always felt it has a double meaning—old habits demand reformation if we want to make vows to something new. So, what in my life needs to change?
This same question lives in my art. I look at a piece and ask: What needs to shift? How can I make it more meaningful? Is the anatomy in motion correct? How can I bend the rules to deliver a clearer, sharper message? There’s always something I’ve been avoiding, and that avoidance is usually the very thing I need to confront.
Recent reflections—especially from being a father—have convinced me of one truth: curiosity demands we sometimes “mess it up a little” (to borrow Willem Dafoe’s words). My daughter’s unfiltered drive to explore, even at the risk of breaking something, is driven by excitement. In art and life, that same drive often comes from love—a love of discovery, a love of beauty, and the love we hope to give and receive.
A year before my Aunt Janice passed, she wrote on a chalkboard: “I would be silent if I would be loved.” I believe, when she left, she felt all the love that had been hidden over a lifetime. Art, in all its forms, can reveal that love—shining through the noise of our busy lives. So if you read anything today, let it be this: you are loved.
In the end, setbacks are illusions—signposts rather than barriers. A fallen tree across the path doesn’t end the journey; it just asks us to walk around it, perhaps greet it with a smile. All things are temporary and fleeting, but they deserve our respect and gratitude. We may not know why an obstacle appeared, but we keep moving forward for the same reason we started: to find and give love.
