A half-sized secondhand violin that I no longer play, a Yamaha trumpet that I still play (but mostly nursery songs and a terrible version of La Bamba). I have a watercoloring palette and a boxful of acrylic paint, half-finished collages and paper craft supplies.
Even my university degree was an act of dabbling — I took it merely out of interest, knowing full well that I was going to be a writer after graduating.
For years, I listened as people told me that I had issues seeing things through, and I beat myself up for it. I wondered if there was truly something wrong with me.
People still tell me that I need to learn how to focus. But I’ve come to appreciate all the experiences that I’ve had.
Dabbling gave my brain the opportunity to learn how to switch into different modes.
Constant dabbling has helped me identify the things that I truly love, and pursue them even harder.
Dabbling has led me to this position in life where I don’t have to be employed, if I don’t want to be.
But more than anything else, dabbling brings me pleasure.