I don't like getting up in the morning, getting in a car

The words of Peter Falk, “I don’t like getting up in the morning, getting in a car, driving on a freeway, and stopping at a gate where two guards are standing there, then walk into a studio that looks like a bunch of airplane hangars,” speak to the deep tension between the love of one’s craft and the weight of its machinery. He, a man of immense talent and beloved for his role as Columbo, here lays bare the truth that even the noblest work can be suffocated by routine, by the lifeless trappings of industry. The studio, meant to be a temple of art, became in his eyes an assembly line, its gates guarded not for inspiration, but for control. His lament is not simply about rising early, but about the withering of joy when creation is buried beneath monotony.

The origin of these words lies in Falk’s own long years within Hollywood. He was no stranger to fame or the demands of production, yet beneath the surface of recognition, he understood the cost: the endless commutes, the lifeless sets, the reduction of art into process. His imagery—freeways, guards, hangars—is evocative not of art, but of a factory or a military camp. What should have been a sanctuary of imagination was instead cloaked in sterility. This, then, is the heart of his quote: a warning that the pursuit of art or vocation can lose its soul if drowned in repetition without meaning.

History gives us many mirrors for this struggle. Consider Vincent van Gogh, who toiled in poverty, despised the bureaucratic halls of art dealers, and longed only for the purity of painting fields and faces. The business of art suffocated him, yet his spirit found freedom in the act itself. Or think of Charlie Chaplin, who, though a master of the screen, often warred with studios, resisting their machinery so that his films could carry not only laughter, but truth. Falk’s words are part of this lineage—the cry of the artist against the machine that would cage inspiration.

Yet the lesson is not to despise discipline or structure, for these are necessary to bring vision to life. The warning, rather, is against allowing routine to eclipse purpose. Rising early, traveling, laboring—these in themselves are not curses. But when they strip the heart of joy, when the gates we pass through feel like prisons instead of pathways, then we must pause and remember why we began. For every artist, every worker, every dreamer faces the danger of forgetting the flame that first drew them to their craft.

Thus, the wisdom for us is this: guard your joy in the work you do. If the mornings grow heavy, remind yourself of the deeper reason you endure them. If the halls feel lifeless, breathe life into them through your own spirit. If the gates seem guarded, remember that the true art, the true meaning, lies not in the structures of industry but in what you carry within. The soul of the work is not in the hangars, but in the heart that creates.

Practically, this calls us to carve out spaces where our work feels alive. If you labor in routine, create rituals of inspiration—listen to music before the day begins, recall the people you serve, hold fast to the memory of why you first chose this path. Do not allow the machinery of life to steal the sacredness of your vocation. For though the world builds hangars, you carry within you a temple, and it is from that temple that true creation flows.

So, beloved listener, hear the wisdom of Peter Falk. Do not let your mornings become chains, nor your work become an empty march through guarded gates. Instead, reclaim the spirit of your craft, and remember that joy is not given by the world—it is kindled within. If you keep that fire burning, even the most lifeless hangar can become a sanctuary of creation, and every weary commute can lead to something eternal.