During the brief five weeks I spent as a full-fledged college student, I had the great fortune of accidentally enrolling in a course called The Creative Process. In fact, it was the first college class I had ever attended and, for that, the most memorable.

I’m by no means an extrovert, but my 19-year-old self was even less so, going to outrageous lengths just to avoid uncomfortable situations. That being the case, the first day of classes was an absolute nightmare for me. On that morning (and for several mornings after) I suffered fits of nervous sickness that culminated in pre-class dry heaving sessions and sweaty, shallow-breathed scavenger hunts for illusive classrooms.

I was in the habit of arriving for any event at least 30 minutes ahead of schedule so as to make myself familiar with my new surroundings. This usually did wonders to calm my nerves and help me ease into new environments and situations. As I sat on a bench outside of a locked art room, I watched as a crowd of my fellow students started to pack the hall. These students weren’t all that dissimilar from the people I had known in high school. Not to say that I was or am any more inclined to intellectual pursuits than anyone else, but these students seemed more juvenile than not, more interested in college as a store-bought commodity than a series of  lessons in critical thinking and problem solving. They also overly enjoyed their newfound freedom to insert the word “fuck” into any and all sentences without rebuke from any authority figures.

I only mention their behavior because, as it turned out, the nature of this course was more revolutionary than one might expect from something that sounds as fluffy and ambiguous as “The Creative Process” and certainly contained more depth and profundity than college freshmen deserved. The professor appeared pushing through the crowd, dressed quite plainly in jeans and a button-up shirt. He was a lanky bespectacled man in his late-forties to mid-fifties who had the friendliest demeanor and showcased the sharpest wit.

Once we had all shuffled into the room and found a seat, he put forth the oddest introduction I’ve ever witnessed.

Imagine, if you will, the one thing you would most like to do in life. Picture it in your mind. The thing that most intrigues you, that most interests you. Imagine your calling.

Now imagine that you are being presented with two options. The first, to practice your calling for seven days and then die a painful death. The second, to practice a trade for which you have no passion for eighty years and then die peacefully in your sleep.

The students at the front of the class called out without hesitation in favor of the latter option. It’s better, they argued, to live eighty years doing what you have no interest in and dying peacefully because living longer presents you with the opportunity to experience more happiness. To this the professor responded…

Do you measure the quality of a life by its duration or by the intensity with which it’s lived?

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