Be here now, even if the thought absolutely terrifies you. Don’t check out. Don’t go back to sleep. The world desperately needs you — it needs your talents, your passion, your ideas, your voice.
IMHO, ‘Normal’ is highly overrated. I am abnormal and proud of it. Yep, I am a big weirdo, navigating this clown car called life.
In my dreams lately, I’m walking through the forest of my youth, heading toward the sea. Sometimes the dreams are reminders to let something go; sometimes they act as a remembrance of what was and how that experience molded my current life.
If you are awake, you know we’re riding the waves right now.
We’re floating in boats without oars, under a dome of blinking stars, surrounded by glowing sea life, and the occasional humpback whale.
We’re on our way somewhere new, but we don’t know where. Yet.
I have cleared my plate and cleared my throat; I feel a stinging sense of rightness, of joy, rising up from the root of my life.
There’s no time left to do anything that doesn’t make my whole life say Yes.
Why would anyone encourage me to do otherwise?
Eve’s gotten a bad rap, in my humble opinion.
I’ve always thought so. As someone who was thirsty for knowledge my whole life, I often wondered why we have to slut-shame our girl, Eve.
After all, what did she do that was so bad? She just wanted to take a bite of that juicy red apple.
Be a novice. Be a blank page. Be embryonic in your sense of yourself. You are just learning the steps. You are just starting out. It is okay to be stupid or blind or to not have the answers. It is okay to be wrong, to make mistakes, to muck it all up. This is all part of the process of becoming. Of enlightenment. Of living.
My heart is a great river, a glittering, rushing river. I remind myself that it may overflow its banks, but there will never be more water than I can handle.
I am flooded with the realization that I cannot give up. I cannot give up. And neither can you.
"I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started the soul-work needed to forge a new life. I quit waiting. I rode in on my own white horse and picked up the pieces. I built a handmade life I am proud of — attached or unattached — a life that has me at the center, not on the periphery. And that was the gift – the pony, so to speak – that was buried in all that shit."
I won’t assume that all extroverts are whores for attention, if you don’t assume that all introverts are shaking in their boots unable to voice an opinion.
We must become comfortable with the uncomfortable truth that nothing is permanent. Life builds us up, only to strip us down to beggar’s bones in the end. We spend the first half of our lives accumulating material possessions, only to spend the last half figuring out what do with them when we are gone.
So many things I was afraid of never happened. And the things that did — the worries that I worried straight into the center of my life — I survived them. Being afraid is not something that creates any value. It doesn’t stop the losses or the changes. It just blows holes in our lives that we would do better without.
Each person’s contribution — each person’s essence is needed. No one’s life is without purpose, even if that purpose is negative. So even poachers, even monsters, even the most vile among us, are here to not only learn the value of life, but to experience the effects of the causes they make. We are in earth school from the day we arrive until the day we die.
I began to imagine a different ending. I imagined plowing all that dirt onto my past and carefully arranging a riot of flowers on the mound left over. I imagined dancing around the grave, bare feet caked with mud, dancing and dancing until I dropped to the ground. It’s OK to mourn the passing away of one part of our lives. It’s OK to sit — grief-stricken and alone — wondering if we’ll ever feel right again. It’s OK to love fiercely even if the someone we love, doesn’t love us back. That doesn’t mean we give up and sit down in the cemetery and make ourselves at home there.
For a long time, I truly wondered what was wrong with me.
I asked myself that question over and over. Why can’t I get my shit together? Why am I still alone? Why can’t I find love? What is it about me that is so repellent, so awful, that even the simplest of joys — companionship — eludes me? Now, I know that nothing was wrong with me, ever. I was born absolutely flawed and absolutely perfect. No one forgot to put some of the pieces in my box. No one left off a part of the instructions for life or sent them to me written in Sanskrit. No one sent me the map to Mars, while others got one for planet Earth. What was wrong in those days were the questions I asked myself. I created lack where there was none simply by focusing on what wasn’t there.