Enlightening Nonsense

© December 13, 2009

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One day I looked up and there you were,

Like a simple question looking for an answer.

Now I am the whale listening to some inner call,

Swimming blindly to throw myself upon your shore.

What if I don’t find you when I have landed?

Will you leave me here to die on your shore stranded?

I think I know why the dog howls at the moon.

I think I know why the dog howls at the moon.

—“Dela” by Johnny Clegg & Savuka

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I met Toad through craigslist. For whatever reason, whether I sensed she could understand what I was saying or whether our souls had planned this date a long time ago, I started to open up to her in a real bare way, sharing some of my spiritual insights but much less playing “The Teacher” and more just being me, giving her a passage into my royal home where most are not allowed. She betrayed me leaving the castle door open and tracking mud through it [see “Moths & Vampires” http://rebelyogi.com/moths-and-vampires]. It wasn’t until some time passed that we reconnected and then she left her dirty shoes in the anteroom and we were able to go into the bedroom.

On reflection, the attraction was not as physical as it was of two souls feeling alone in the world sharing a moment of needed soul friendship. This was a little deeper than two barflies hooking up and one waking up the next morning with “WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF AIDS” written in lipstick on his or her mirror. I appreciated that she wasn’t a spiritual dope, that she had some thoughts of her own to offer and that we didn’t need to be discussing spirituality non-stop, that we could just walk on the beach or listen to John Denver together and be at peace. We didn’t really have to do anything in particular and it was cool. I knew she had an issue with depression that she was dealing with but it wasn’t until her neurosis started to come out more overtly that I started to feel suffocated by it, not to mention my ass was starting to get larger from the pint of Bliss coconut milk ice cream she would bring over each night.

When I first saw Roach, I was not attracted to her. In fact, as I was coming off the stage of “The Transitioning To Raw Foods” panel at the Raw Spirit Festival where she was the impromptu monitor, I commented on how she did a great job and she said something about how she was interested in what I was talking about and would like to hear more. Me, like a typical clueless man to the workings of women, walked away not realizing that that meant, “I’d like to bone you!”

It was only after we had a serious sit-down and chat for hours that I found more of an attraction. She had said to me early on, “You aren’t used to people meeting you.” By this she meant, “Meeting you at your level of consciousness.” Or perhaps she meant my lack of hygiene probably doesn’t attract too much company. Either way, it was true. While after more dealings with her I found her “intuition” regarding me to be more off than on, she was right on about that.

The other implication of her statement was that she was able to “meet” me. She was only partially right about that. She was a beggar who had accumulated enough random pieces of garbage to make a home out of cut-out knowledge and fluffy aphorisms but if the wind blew hard enough, her and her makeshift home would blow down as quickly as the piggy’s House of Straw was blown down by the wolf. She was “meeting me” at the garbage bin where I was throwing out spiritual trash but she was not of the royal class of which I am.

On reflection, I was attracted to her knowledge of the raw food “game” and the fact that maybe we could play it together but once I got to the end of her book of knowledge, while there was an extensive list of References, I was done and because it was incapable of being used for fun, like having a catch with it or smashing someone over the head with it, I was pretty much ready to put it back on the shelf, where someone perusing for cheap drama could run his fingers through her until he too got bored that there were no laughs hidden within all of those pages and pages of preaching.

I went in to try a yoga class at Ramakrishnananda because I figured anyone who had the balls to make such a long ridiculous name to place on his school had to teach a ballsy class. I was hoping “ballsy” didn’t entail teabagging his balls across my chin like was the case with my main teacher in yoga teacher training, Gilby. On a positive note, his balls did change from smelling like stale cheese to talcum powder by the end of the program. I think that was his way of courting me. But pretended to be straight, and used his “baby on the way” to stake that claim, but after I came in his mouth I had my doubts.

I was meeting a friend at Ramankrishnananda and arrived with only a few minutes to spare. After the required paperwork and signing of the release form that says: By signing below I understand that tea-bagging is fair game and that the only recourse if such a situation occurs is to munch quietly so as not to disturb the other students, I went into the yoga room.

There was only one other girl there who looked kind of Indian, Duck. I placed my mat near hers and thought I’d put on the charm so that if she happened to glance over while I was going to town on Ramennoodlesananda’s balls there would still be a remote chance that she would think I was straight. If desperate enough, I may even use the “baby on the way” line. There were a lot of latecomers and my mouth remained pleasantly pubic hair free throughout the class. It wasn’t until the gay bar I frequented later that a few of those sneaky little bastards got stuck in my throat.

At the end of the class, I gave Duck my card with not much fanfare. She took it in a way that seemed somewhat glad to have it but then I never heard from her. It didn’t really matter, as I have about a thousand of those cards I got from Vistaprint for about $5 and two hours clicking “NO!” to all the annoying offers you have to get through in order to get their cheap cards. By the time I finally had no more “offers” to click through, I was ready to chew on my own balls!

But then it happened. I received an email from her. Since my cards have passed through about as many women’s hands as Bill Clinton’s pecker, minus the leakage on their dresses, it took me a little while to figure out who she was. When I did, I arranged to go to the Ramennoodle Studio when she was going and we talked about going for a walk afterwards. By “talked,” I mean in email, our modern form of dyscommunication.

I was looking forward to the class ending, not just to spend time with Duck but also because I was not so lucky this time to escape the salty taste of Ramennoodlesananda’s nut sack. After class we walked and talked as planned.

She was actually a lot lighter than I thought she would be, which I charmingly noted when I lifted her and said, “For someone with such a fat ass, you’re really quite light!” I mean by this that she wasn’t one of those Indians that spends an hour and a half each morning getting the red dot just right on their foreheads. In fact, she wasn’t even Indian; she was from South America. She was 5’9” and 124 lbs. and besides being what most would consider “attractive,” she had a spark in her eyes that was enchanting me. The last time I was that enchanted was when I crashed my boat into a rock because of Peter Griffin from Family Guy singing his Siren song.

It was on a dimly lit sidewalk where it hit me like an anvil in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. On January 1^st of this year, I had done a Soulmate Meditation where you meet three secondary soulmates and one primary soulmate. Suddenly I recognized Duck—she was the last of the secondary soulmates!

Now the meditation should already come into question, as while I met my “primary” on the date and location that I had written down and she had the same name that I had been given, the one thing that was a little off was that she was not my primary soulmate but a soul-stealing red-haired devil. I remember my “primary” regret was not that she had pulled my heart out of my chest and eaten it with her fangs but that I had cleared from my computer all the girly pictures I had accumulated because I foolishly thought, “I won’t be needing these anymore!” In truth I didn’t—I needed hundreds of hours of therapy. But since I wasn’t going to pay to lie down on some therapists couch while he got off using my psychosis like a blow-up doll, I was left a shell of the nut I was. It took a couple of months of reflection and writing to purge myself of the poison that she injected in me like Mark McGuire did steroids.

Duck and I were having a nice time walking and talking and health food storing and then she dropped a bomb on me. By “dropping a bomb,” I don’t want you to take this literally like a Christian who believes everything that is written in Mother Goose’s New Testament or like a Muslim who thinks that dropping a bomb is the solution to everything or like a coprophag who thinks that “dropping a bomb” means taking a dump on someone.

“Students, what is 2 +2?” said the grade school teacher at the Muslim school.

“Blow myself up with a bomb?” said the little boy in the front row, somewhat tentatively under the weight of uncertainty and a heavy turban.

“That’s right, Achmed. ‘Blow yourself up.’ And what is the largest continent on the earth?”

“Kill the Jews!” shouted Mayyadah from the back of the room.

“Although I was looking again for ‘Blow myself up with a bomb,’ that answer is also acceptable,” said the teacher.

She told me that her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, which I was actually pretty psyched about, as it would allow me to tell one of my favorite jokes.

The husband came home and saw his wife balling tears like she never had before. “Now, now, nothing could be that bad,” he comforted, “What is the matter?”

“I just came from the doctor and he said I have “The Big A.”

The husband looked a little confused. “What is ‘The Big A’?” he asked.

“It’s either AIDS or Alzheimer’s, I can’t remember!” she blurted out with more tears.

The husband told her he would get to the bottom of this. He went to the phone and called the wife’s doctor.

“Doctor, I came home to find my wife crying hysterically. She said that you told her that she has ‘The Big A.’ What is that, doctor—Is it AIDS or Alzheimer’s?”

The doctor replied, “I don’t have her chart in front of me and I have another patient coming in a minute. I’ll tell you what you do: have her go to the corner and pick up some milk. If she makes it back—don’t fuck her.”

But then she told me that she was leaving in 10 days to be with her family in Peru. Sensitive to her needs, I asked something like, “Well, will you be back when the old bag completely loses her mind?” She told me that the move was a permanent one.

As anyone who knows me can attest, there is little that can shut me up besides a pair of salty balls in my mouth. But her words sealed my mouth and no words were forthcoming. If it weren’t for the lack of a fishy seawater taste in my mouth, I would have thought I was being teabagged once again.

She commented on my silence and I made a joke like, “For a minute my brain went all Swiss cheese like your mother’s,” and soon it was just like my fighting career: a serious head blow, a few weeks of not knowing who I am and by the time I snapped to my senses, I was stepping right back into the ring again. It seems my life is more like a fighter in the ring than a retard who accepts a box of chocolates.

I did tell her that I was disappointed. Since she was raised a Catholic, I tried to bring in Jesus to my defense. “Jesus said, ‘Let the dead bury the dead.’ I think that can most aptly be applied to today that if, let’s say, a parent were going brain dead, that we should leave her alone and perhaps even give a blowjob to the company in which we were currently keeping.” She is a girl, so I suppose the priests left her alone, so the only thing that must have been clogging her ears to my perfect biblical logic was Catholic guilt. So I told her that she would burn for eternity in Hell if she went against the words of Jesus. After she rejected this final attempt at getting her to stay, I gave up on trying to convince her that she should forget about her mother. I knew, “Forget your mother, she’s gonna forget about you,” would only make things worse.

We were riding the subway and were about two stops away from where I was to get off and she was to keep going. I said, “Look, my stop’s coming up in a couple and I was wondering if we could kiss now so as to avoid that ‘in-a-rush, should we or shouldn’t we’ situation when the train pulls into my stop.” Her response wasn’t revulsion, although it did take me the better part of one stop to clean her projectile vomit off of my shirt.

It seemed more of a “not here in front of others” response that reminded me of when I lost my virginity: I was wasted at a party on my dorm’s floor and slurred to a Resident Assistant who was two years my senior, “I want to kiss you.” She answered, “Not here,” and there wasn’t enough alcohol in the keg to block me from realizing that this meant I was getting some that night. We went back to her room and 15-seconds later I was no longer a virgin.

I figured that I wasn’t getting any from Duck that night but if I played my cards right, there may just be a kiss in my future. I decided not to push my luck and ask if there was a possible blowjob in my future as well and so we shared a lovely parting pat-on-the-knee together and I left.

The next day I invited her to a yoga class at Laughing Lotus, where I had a Yoga Passbook free pass for me and a guest. I hadn’t had a date that cheap since my neighbor, Mr. Goldstein, asked if I’d like to earn a few bucks for washing his car. Being the lazy kid I was, I told him to give me the keys and enough to pay for the drive-thru car wash and I’d take it for him and I picked up my date on the way. In hindsight, it would have probably been best to roll up the windows before going through. While I didn’t get a blowjob from her that night, I must say the carwash blow job was extraordinary. Oh yeah, and Mr. Goldstein didn’t let me take his car anymore after that and I attribute this incident for starting a long history of anti-Semitism for me.

The class was listed as “Basic,” which means to them that it follows the same Laughing Lotus speed-through flow but without positions that are too complicated. I had a pretty good time until I went to the bathroom where the sign said:

Love Mother Earth Save Paper!

Please use only what you need

Namaste

I usually like to wipe my ass clean and then take one additional square of paper to really make it spic-n-span. Because of this restriction, I did not partake of my additional hygienic practice and the result was an ass that was just spic, which means that it itched like a Mexican taking a siesta on a pile of Pinworms. I hadn’t left a yoga studio with that dirty of an ass since the time I was thrown out of Jivamukti’s yoga center. In my defense, they had a sign over the urinal that read:

If it’s yellow, let it mellow.

If it’s brown, flush it down.

As it was my understanding that no one generally takes a dump in a urinal, I didn’t see how the acrid-smelling brownish-orange puddle of piss was ever going to get flushed down. Being a staunch rule-follower, I did the only thing I thought would help alleviate the situation: I dropped my drawers, pointed my ass towards the urinal and dropped a bomb, this time I am using it in the sense of taking a shit.

If it weren’t for the fruity yoga guy who upon entering the locker room and seeing my ass pressed against the porcelain screamed like a cat whose tail was just run over by a man in a wheelchair, I would have gotten out, squeaky clean. Instead I ran out of there with my pants around my ankles like Peter Griffin from the proctologist’s office after his first prostate exam. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHKTE75dgE4]

When we got to the subway, I wanted a kiss. When I saw her hesitate, being always ever sensitive to the needs and feelings of my female companions, I told her, “Let’s not start this shit again.” She reminded me that she was leaving in 9 days and that it didn’t make any sense to—

“Look, be with me in the present, in the NOW. If you have half your ass thinking about logic or the future or what is the ‘right’ thing to do, then all you can give me is half-assed.“ While I didn’t think this as brilliant as my “You’ll burn in Hell for eternity” shpeel from the day before, she kissed me. Twice. Well, the second one I initiated. No tongue but it was something.  She walked off into her subway and I walked up the stairs and into the cold, the only thing keeping me warm was the soft shadow of her kiss. 9 days and counting.

I had the opportunity to meet someone that night who I had connected with through craigslist who had an extra ticket for the last concert of The Derek Trucks Band before the main dude decided to hang up his guitar for awhile. She was dangling that ticket out there like a hook to attract a biting dick.

I would have never heard of The Derek Trucks Band if I didn’t meet a girl last year who I knew liked Santana and who I wanted to bone so I got my music industry client to hook me up with two tickets to see Santana at Madison Square Garden. At that concert, The Derek Trucks Band opened the show. Derek Trucks was a badass guitar player and if he didn’t have a name like a redneck 18-wheeler, I might have waited at his dressing room with my panties and a toothbrush in a Ziploc bag.

I had responded to the ad because I’m a dick and I thought it would be cool to go to a concert only a few days away with someone who I didn’t really know without any expectations, other than some fierce guitar riffs and a handjob in the parking lot. We had a few emails back and forth and she narrowed it down to me and two other dicks.

We talked on the phone briefly and she talked about meeting me to see the big Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. I said, “Or we could eat some jellybeans,” quoting the line from Good Will Hunting about how the phrase, “Let’s get some coffee” is a stupid way of saying “Let’s get together” and could be replaced by any mundane activity.

The last thing I wanted to do was to be jammed together with a bunch of bozos who find looking at a tall, chopped out of the ground, draining our planets resources because it’s lit up like a Christmas tree—and a big one at that—tree something that would give them a boner. But this was to be the first night of hanging with Duck after the yoga class and I didn’t know whether it was going to be a “That was a fun class. Have a great night!” evening or a “Honey, I’m sorry I’m out of condoms but had I known you were such a whore I would have bought the Economy Size bucket!” and so I told the ticketholder that I would text her.

I was reminded of when I was invited to see Ella Fitzgerald sing by a girl who I did summer theater with for years. I kinda heard of Ella but didn’t realize that she was such a legend and so I blew off going because I didn’t really want to hang out with that girl. This was one of my ten regrets in life, only just behind not dating Jennifer Lopez because I thought her ass was fat.

Realizing that the days were ticking away, I texted the ticketholder from the shady sidewalk where I realized that Duck had come to share with me a message for my soul that I was going to pass on the tree viewing for that night. I wrote her that while I think it would have been fun to go with her, I was taking myself out of the running, as I had met a girl that I was very interested in who was leaving the country soon—choosing the company of a demented mother over mine—and that I’d rather maximize my time with her. I knew that I would have charmed the pants off of her if we met and if I could refrain from puking at the sight of her granny panties that she’d choose me…but a concert is just a concert.

I was reminded of the classic scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams told Matt Damon that he gave up his ticket to the World Series game where Boston’s Carlton “Pudge” Fiske hit a homerun to win the series because he saw a girl in a bar and knew he had to be with her and, as he told his friends who he passed his ticket to, “I have to see about a girl.” I had to see about a girl, too, because I had to know. I even considered finding a prostitute with Alzheimer’s and seeing if I could pick it up from her so that I could exploit Duck’s weak spot for the dim-witted.

The next day I invited Duck over for a homemade lunch or dinner, really more of a “lunner,” and to watch my favorite movie on DVD, V for Vendetta. I had made a good-looking salad last night with mixed greens, sprouts, tomato, carrots, avocado and only a touch of onion as I was planning to kiss this girl something big the next day.

I also prepared quinoa (which is a grain for all of you who only know rice), which would be topped by stir-fried broccoli, squash, tomato, onion and garlic in coconut oil. I figured the frying would chill out the onion and garlic, which it did. I was glad she was not one of those raw food freaks and then dinner would have to be something like salad, avocado rolled in seaweed and a juicy piece of celery for dessert.

Oh yeah, for dessert I made a chocolate pudding made out of blended bananas and black mission figs, with raw cocoa powder and stevia (a sweet herb) and topped with raspberries around the rim of the bowl, sliced bananas making an inner circle to the raspberries and one raspberry marking the center. The presentation was as sweet as the dessert.

She came over and we watched the movie first. She threw her legs over me during the movie and it felt totally cool, very comfortable. Periodically I looked at her with my peripheral vision, so as not to make her aware that I was checking her out and also because I didn’t want to miss a single frame of that amazing movie. It felt surreal, like I was aware that we came together for however long to connect as souls and were not really bodies but that we were occupying bodies at the moment and it felt nice that we were.

With Roach I had had some times when she wasn’t running around saving the world where we just hung out but there was always a silent buzz of tension, be it emanating from her disgust at my place or the fact that she probably had her TO DO list reviewing constantly in the back of her head:

Item #1: Hang out with people who want to save the world.

Item #2: Save the world.

Item #3: Find something else to keep myself too occupied to face my fears.

My TO DO list was much simpler:

Item #1: Throw out this TO DO list.

Item #2: I wonder when Roach is leaving already.

Item #3: Think of another item for this TO DO list.

The movie was great. Dinner was great, although it made me a bit gassy and I had to constantly do the old squeeze-and-contract sphincter trick in order not to blast out any thunder.

We held each other on the couch and she seemed to be struggling to get comfortable. From years of watching cheap porn, I asked, “Anything?” I realized that made no sense and so I said in equal pornesque manner, “We could go in the bedroom.” And we did.

What happened next… a gentleman never tells. I’m not a gentleman but I’m not telling either. As much as I bored you with details of my food menu and at this point you’re probably begging for a little, “So I’m banging her like a cheap Tijuana hooker,” it really doesn’t serve a point to share this with you. And in case I didn’t get any, it keeps the illusion alive that there was the possibility that I got some. But that’s part of the point of this whole piece: it’s all about possibilities.

She did spend the night and I had no distracting thoughts of how I was being judged for the clutter on the side of my bed, as I would have had Roach spent the night. But Roach wouldn’t enter my apartment without a Hazmat suit and my bedroom without a complete fumigation first.

The day before we spent the night together, I was walking and listening to a CD of my beloved, Osho. I was so in love with his beauty expressed through words that I was beaming as I walked, not even so bothered that when I arrived at my destination, the Verizon store, I would leave it $50 poorer. After I left Verizon, the batteries of my CD player died and I took off my killer Sony headphones, which are slammin’ huge and for which I paid about $150 ten years ago, which means in today’s market with the price of the dollar making it so it’s actually cost-efficient to wipe your ass with dollars rather than with 2-ply toilet paper (single-ply comes about even) that it would be about $3,285.

The sun was out and the air was fresh and the cold December day didn’t feel as cold. I had another chore some distance away. I had to pick up my notebook where I make notes of all the madness that I encounter in my day to write about at a later date and inspired poems that come to me when least expected. I left it at a client’s apartment that morning and so I decided to continue my chores and dog walk with Abandon. I also decided to open up the channel to talk with Osho.

We discussed some deep Truths and then I asked him. “Is Duck my soulmate?” He responded right away, “You know the answer to that.” I was reminded of when I asked my professional psychic soul friend who was in trance if Thai Tish was my soulmate and she said no and I burst into hysterical tears. Needless to say, this took my friend out of trance and she comforted my balling ass by sticking her own balls in my mouth.

Osho didn’t wait for me to whine, “Oh come on, just tell me!” because he knows that patience is not my strongest virtue and if I want to know something now, I’m just going to have a temper tantrum until I get it. He also knows that I prefer Truth with pain to the dullness of a polite falsehood. And he told me.

During the next night I spent with Duck, his words came back to the forefront of my brain, taking a break from my the background where animal porn and the Things You Can Stick In Your Ass board game reside. And his words rang true.

So now it is about 6 days and counting. I hope to spend more time with Duck in the coming week. I am at a place where I am not attached to the outcome of this meeting of souls and I owe this in large part to going through my experience with the girl who I was certain was my primary soulmate and instead was a she-devil.

The one thing I am certain of is that Duck came at this time in my life because I was ready for another lesson. The lesson came not like in the spiritual storybooks where one meets a wise teacher on the mountain who says, “Stop wearing thong underwear if your ass is bothering you!” and then you see the light of Mt. Kilimanjaro and walk away enlightened. The lesson also didn’t come from any dead master in my head.

It came only from diving fully into the experience to see, an act that most spiritual pussies never do because as much as they pretend that they seek Truth, what they really seek is “safe” truth. And no real Truth comes without risk.

I’m reminded of a walk on the beach I had with my father when I realized that the old guy would never fully understand me. I told him that I had bought the $6000+ iridology camera in order to put the culmination of my studies together into a system of my own and that while after only one paid session, the camera gathered dust and never used again and was finally sold years later on eBay for about $1500, I needed to go through that experience to explore the possibility.

I said to my Dad, “It seems like all you see it as was a bad decision and that is why you’ll never fully get me.” He told me that I was right, that he saw it as a bad financial decision. And at that time, a light went off in my head that wasn’t, for a change, the woman in Germany switching that light switch in her basement on and off that didn’t seem to be connected to anything but was really connected to my head. I realized that I could either enjoy the walk, not just along the beach but also in life, with my Dad, or I could continue to butt heads for the next decade or so until he kicks the bucket. I decided to butt heads, as my skull is pretty friggin’ thick and it’s only a matter of time before he cracks or kicks.

Like I told Duck the night in the subway, you have to go full-assed into anything, otherwise you’ll never know the possibilities. So maybe I’ll see about getting rid of my stuff and moving to Peru to swim in the South American lake with Duck as her mindless mom quacks away. Maybe I’ll wish her goodbye and thank her for coming into my life, even if it was for such a seemingly short period this time around.

But the one thing I am certain of is that I am a better me for her arrival. And, really, that’s all that matters. Not who you decide to spend your days with. Not what job you slave away at. But that you explore the possibilities, you grow, and as Robin William’s character said in Good Will Hunting, you don’t spend the next twenty years of your life sitting on a barstool and wondering what would have happened if…?

I also know that an attraction of the body, an attraction of the mind, an attraction of philosophies or an attraction of activities doesn’t’ compare to an attraction of two souls looking into each other’s eyes and recognizing each other, whether the moment lasts only for a glance, 10 days… or a lifetime.

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REFLECTION:

Is your life so busy that everything you do is half-assed? Is your TO DO list always full and every time you clear one item, it seems two or three more magically appear? Are you giving your family, your friends, your work, your dog, your joy, the time they need in order for your relationships or projects or happiness to fully blossom?

Or are you like most, kidding yourself that, “I’ll relax once the job settles down,” or “…once I find a partner,” or “…once the kids graduate college,” not facing to yourself that for all you know you may die of stress-related heart failure or by being hit by a bus on your inline skates and the day to relax and enjoy will only come with a coffin?

What is it that you really care about? Not the bullshit. I asked one girl online what her passions were and she said “shopping and spas.” I’m not saying you shouldn’t enjoy these things but if these are your passions you might as well put a bullet in your head and kill yourself—not because your life is not going to get any better but because if I see you I will probably kill your dumb ass and your simple suicide will save a pretty boy like me from a life of sodomy in prison.

What will it take for you to give a full-assed effort to partake in the things you really care about NOW—not in a few months, not in a few years, not when you’re dead? Then stop being a procrastinating pussy and do it!

MEDITATION:

I received this email yesterday:

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If you’re doing something for someone else’s approval

…You may as well not do it at all…

There is only one reason to do anything:

To Announce & Declare,

Express & Fulfill,

Become & Experience,

~~~Who You Really Are~~~

Do what you do, therefore,

…For the Sheer JOY of it…

For sheer JOY is who you are

…..Do what YOU choose…..!!!

Not what someone else chooses for you!!!

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Imagine if you dropped everything that you did out of obligation, for others, or because it made you a “good” person in someone else’s eyes, or because it’s “the right thing to do.” Imagine if you stopped spending time with people because, “He expects it.” Imagine if you stopped spending time at events and parties and socials and dinners and lunches and drinks because, “I really should show my face.” How would you spend all your extra time and energy? And how would that feel? The possibility is yours—don’t let it slip away!

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Where are the dreams that we once had?

This is the time to bring them back.

What were the promises caught on the tips of our tongues?

Do we forget or forgive?

There’s a whole other life waiting to be lived when…

One day we’re brave enough

To talk with Conviction of the Heart.

—Kenny Loggins, “Conviction of the Heart”