Good morning, you courageous creations of Nature! You Herculeses of fate! You wander-lusty Amazons of the world!
My beloved quirky dreamers stepping into the spot normally occupied by my Inspiration (for that Amazon wander-lusts a lot on my bohemian ass!). My gypsy friends with messy heads of curls telegraphing your love via the Northern winds. You curious hearts refusing to give up on charity or love. You soldiers willing to rest only in my company while stretching your exhausted thighs underneath my pine table loaded with a homemade feast.
My Angles, my Black Birds; my Peter Pans and Wendys; my Little Princes and their Brave Roses. My Shivas. My Bad Asses. My Hearts.
Where in the frigging fuck are we all running to?
“Gotta do something! Gotta be somebody!” you tell me.
I bet it is your ambition and your courageous pursuit of your dreams that makes me adore you. But I have seen some of you slip up — but never crumble — on the way to your conquests; and in those vulnerable seconds I could NOT have loved you more. Because it is in the way you chuckle when you pick yourself up; the way you rise up again, albeit embarrassed; the way you mend your torn-up clothes — with dignity of kings!; the way you bite your lower lips when I tend to your scratches; and the way you brush off your shoulders from the hail of the words of haters — in all that you teach me the merely invisible line between pride and dignity. And then you take off again, pushing yourself with your impatience, or your fear of not mattering.
“Gotta get somewhere! Gotta become something!”
Last night, a beloved woman best compared to my personal Mother Teresa was beating herself up in our phone conversation. She has experienced motherhood late in life, and instead of living for the sake of her daughter alone — she went back to school. Astonishing! Off she went, my kindest LA-LA heart, pulling along a full-time job, a full-time class schedule — and a frigging stroller.
“I’ve got to do this for my daughter!” she flagellated the soft skin of her back with her frustration at the current, undeserving employer and her impatience with the world’s injustices; and the self-imposed pressure to be a better parent.
The last time I’ve encountered that mentioned girl-child, born so smart she conjugates her verbs better than most grown-ups she meets at her play-dates, she wasn’t asking her mother to become better. Her mother’s time — was all she wanted. And who could blame her: In the company of my girlfriend, every person feels fully received, understood and unconditionally accepted. Oh so many times, my red-headed Mother Teresa had gotten an earful from me about the errors of my underserving men or my own sins against my self-worth. Yet, she remained nonjudgemental, kind — just the way a mother is supposed to be. So, the only thing I miss about her these days — is her company. Her time. Her very being. To me, she is perfectly enough; and I bet that little brilliant child of hers feels the same way.
“Well! I’ve gotta do this, for myself!” my favorite redhead concluded last night, after a couple of my meek objections.
A’right! NOW we’re talkin’! The most stubborn advocate of learning, I shall not disagree with this woman’s ambition to better herself — but she better not pull that sacrifice card on me, or on her child. Do it for yourself, your own high expectations of your humanity. But in the mean time, please: Treat yourself with a lil’ bit more kindness, will you?
Now, I wish I would live by my own sermon, my comrades. Having skipped out on sufficient sleep for a month now, I am tearing through time that passes way too quickly while my dreams seem to move way too slowly, crashing the face of every clock I encounter on my way like a petulant child who’s not fond of hearing “Nyet!”. With each new wrinkle underneath my exhausted eyes, I’ve been chalking-up the sacrifices committed for the sake of my future, accomplished and seemingly overall better self.
“Gotta, gotta, gotta!” I mutter in my lover’s bed; and he — Shiva bless him! — tangles up his callused, manly hand in my hair and whispers me to sleep.
Okay! I promise: Tomorrow I shall rest!
…Yet already, my to-day’s heavy schedule is scratching at the front door, like a homeless, scrawny cat I’ve made a poor choice to feed every once in a while. The sound of everything I’ve “gotta” do is speeding-up my heartbeat and making me slightly nauseous with anxiety. Just like always, I bet I shall accomplish every one of my “gotta’s” with grace and efficiency; and when I do, I promise to celebrate with a cup of brutally-brewed black Russian tea, with brown honey. And during my rest stops — my breathing breaks — I shall let my beloveds remind me of my magnificence and demand my time and company; for it is in the shared moments of slowness that I tend to feel most accomplished and merely enough.
But tomorrow, my beautiful dreamers, my curious bystanders and compassionate witnesses — tomorrow, I promise to do this, all friggin’ day: