I want to make people dance, I want to make people smile, and I

The words of Mabel, “I want to make people dance, I want to make people smile, and I want my music to get played in clubs,” seem simple on the surface, yet they carry the heartbeat of an ancient calling. For what is music, if not the language of the soul? And what are dance and smiles, if not the outward signs that the spirit has been touched and awakened? In her declaration, Mabel stands in the long lineage of singers, poets, and minstrels who have sought not only to entertain, but to uplift, to heal, and to unite.

The desire to make people dance is not merely about movement of the body—it is about freedom. Since the earliest tribes, dance has been the release of burdens, the celebration of life, the rhythm by which humanity affirms its existence. To inspire dance is to give others a moment of liberation, a chance to shake off sorrow and remember the joy of being alive. Thus, when Mabel seeks to move bodies to rhythm, she is also seeking to liberate souls.

Likewise, to make people smile is to bring light into a world often heavy with shadow. The smile is among the most ancient and universal gestures of humanity. It cuts across language, culture, and division, and it signals to another human being: “You are safe. You are not alone.” Mabel’s wish is not only to make music heard, but to bring forth the warmth of shared joy. In this, she joins the ranks of those healers who knew that laughter and cheer are as vital as food and shelter.

Consider the story of Bob Marley, whose songs carried the message of hope to the oppressed and the weary. His rhythms made people dance, but his words made them smile with courage, even in the face of hardship. In the streets of Kingston and in the far corners of the world, his music became a balm, a banner, and a bridge. Like Marley, Mabel seeks not just to fill the air with sound, but to fill hearts with strength and joy.

The wish for her music to be played in clubs is also rich in meaning. For the club, like the gathering place of the ancients, is a temple of togetherness. It is the space where strangers become companions, where walls of difference crumble under the shared beat of rhythm. Just as the fire circle was once the heart of the tribe, the modern dance floor becomes a space where music erases divisions. To enter such a place with a song is to join in the ancient work of weaving unity among human beings.

The lesson here is timeless: the purpose of art is not only to display talent, but to awaken life in others. When you create—whether through music, words, or simple acts of kindness—seek not only your own recognition, but the transformation of those who encounter your work. If your effort can make another smile, if it can make another dance, if it can help a soul forget sorrow for even a moment, then you have done the work of the ancients, and your labor carries eternal worth.

To practice this, do not ask only, “What do I want to achieve?” but also, “Whom can I touch, whom can I lift, whom can I free?” When you speak, let your words bring light. When you work, let your labor bring joy. When you create, let your creations invite others to move, to laugh, to remember the goodness of life. In this way, you will live as Mabel longs to live—not only as an artist, but as a bearer of joy.

So remember, O seekers of tomorrow: to dance, to smile, to gather in the circle of music—these are not small things. They are the pulse of humanity itself. And when your work helps others to taste these gifts, you join in the timeless mission of those who came before: to bring light into the world, to turn sorrow into joy, and to remind us all that life, though fleeting, is worth celebrating.