soften

every once in a while, when i come across a random college picture—in a forgotten notebook, or stuck between pages of a book, my heart cracks and breaks, and just for a moment, i want to go back in time and scream - STOP! nobody move. let's just stay here together forever.

oh.

i've been trying to give myself lots of little things to look forward to: tyanne's birthday happy hour was great fun on friday, involving photobooths and mrs. pac man. a valentine's dinner-and-movie date with caitlin ensued on saturday. and today, i spent time reading oriah mountain dreamer's the invitation followed by a glorius nap. i wonder if there will come a point where i don't have to work so hard to be happy. staying away from capitol hill helps, as does painting my fingernails pink and taking baths with eucalyptus-scented salts. also, now that i've noticed a tendency in myself to steamroll people with ideas that i don't even necessarily believe—my mantra is: soften, soften, soften. and i feel softer, softer, softer inside.

excerpts from the poem the invitation was based upon:

it doesn't interest me what you do for a living. i want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

it doesn't interest me how old you are. i want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

. . .

i want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

i want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “yes!”

. . .

it doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. i want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

on howell & minor

i’m in the lobby of some fancy schmancy downtown seattle office building. i think it’s called metropolitan park. or metropolitan place. or metropolitan north. whatever it is, they want you to know it’s metropolitan. there’s a revolving door in the lobby and it’s windy outside, which together creates a miniature revolving windstorm as one makes their way through the doors. about a third of the people feel the need to exclaim as they stand in the lobby folding up their dripping umbrellas and readjusting their hats. these individuals are mostly middle-aged women with short haircuts, practical trench coats, and rolling backpacks. the sheer intensity of their exhilaration breaks my heart. like they’re desperately in need of some real adventure. and i so badly want to take them by the hand, hop into the nearest cab, and put them on the first plane to morocco. but instead, i watch as their sensible pumps and rolling backpacks echo down the hallway, and they step into elevators that will deliver them to their places of duty.

please, god, don’t let this be me. everyone that knows me knows that the only thing i find more depressing than the economy are the people wringing their hands over it. i believe the rate of unemployment is directly related to the percentage of people who have the potential to improve their lives. how glorious is it to have such an expanse of time to dream and imagine without monday morning boring its ugly head into our dreams? oh, i don’t have any solutions. i’m having this guy read my tarot and astrology chart next thursday, and i’m hoping to get a little clarity. it’s 300 bucks, but he’s supposed to really good, and besides it’s a small price to pay for a little clarity. i’ll be honest: once again, i’m paralyzed by my oldest friend, indecision.