Sometimes on Saturday, after we ambush Larry the gentlemanly pug who has accompanied his father, one of our parents’ favorite humans, for a nice visit, our mother relegates us to the upstairs by using the laundry hamper and a pile of pillows as a barricade to keep us from creating further discord.
936. High-waisted jeans
937. How certain fonts make things funnier
Always, always, it’s been about finding a way to be. I semi-hate the word authentic but that’s what it boils down to. What I like, who I am, how I speak, write, feel—the specific way I choose to engage with and be in the world. Moving forward in a graceful way even while I’m hampered by all the times I’ve failed to do this. My daily, hourly question has and will continue to be “does the way I am cultivate more or less of me?”
So often, I pander. I try to coerce through urging or encouragement or rage. When I am able to walk that fine line of wanting to push my own agenda with allowing and accepting Other just as it is—these are the times when I hit the jackpot. These are the times when I’m able to feel peace.
I’ll be gone or a hundred and twenty by the time I figure all of it out but that doesn’t deter me from trying. I cling to wonder like it’s the thing that will save my heart. Early on, I’ve had the compulsion to make a difference. On some level that desire to make a difference circles back around to saving myself. If I make the world a better place then I will be safer. If I can convince myself and you to be kind, unphony, well, then maybe both of us will experience grace.
The ongoing lesson for me is that there is no productivity in maintaining a preoccupied stance with an outward gaze. The only way around is through. The revolution I’m looking for is quiet. And it doesn’t have to do with anyone other than me.
Yours In Navel Gazing,
933. False eyelashes
934. When things taste like other things smell
935. Why cable ads for local restaurants are so depressing