Right at this very moment I am looking outside at the towels hanging on the clothesline in the front yard and thinking about how it is that I am here. By here I mean, all of this: this place, this perspective, these circumstances.
Sometimes, I’m a little shocked by the level of risk that is needed in order to live a life that makes any sort of sense to me. I am a planner, a big time worrier, and a person who procrastinates for unimaginable lengths of time(It took me twenty-six years to come out as queer. Thirty, to come out as a writer*), but when I think real hard and deep about what it is that I need to do, anything less that diving head first into a deep ocean of unknown, leaves me feeling empty.
Once that risk is taken, the whole thing leads me to these odd situations that feel like dreaming. Strange and beautiful things happen when intuition is followed, but these strange and beautiful things feel so far away from everything I was taught to believe.
I listen to the Universe/the small still voice/whatever the source all of this is, and I feel so human. What is this ugly system that is set into place on this lovely planet doing here? I don’t think I’m fundamentally different from any other person here, but I do think we all sit on this sliding scale of authenticity, and that I attempt to sit as close to honest as possible.
What is so scary about telling our own truths anyway?
What would happen if everyone, all at once, decided to say what was really on their mind and do the exact thing that they wanted to do?
I think it would probably be wonderful.
*Some people say that a person is not a writer until they achieve some level of writerly “success,” but I don’t see it that way. It is all I think about. That counts for something.
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