I left an office at the top of the Pan Am Building, a nine-room apartment, and a farm in Vermont because I was aching inside. It took an analyst to tell me I could write a note of permission to become a musician and sign it.

I was working as a stockbroker in New York and had the seemingly perfect life.

Somehow, people get very nervous about leaving the comfortable life of rules behind and never take the chance to develop their own internal voice, to listen to their own consciousness.

I had been the dutiful son and husband for so long, I had forgotten about living for myself.