I’m lounging on a bed, in a basement, after a hard day’s work of web-surfing, in Portland, Oregon. I’ve been doing the same thing for days. What am I doing here? I have some half-baked plan in my head, with all sorts of schmaltzy, cliched phrases swirling around like “I want to make a difference”, or “I want to have adventures”. I showed up on a plane without a job or a place to live with the easy confidence that things will happen, that they will be what they should be. And they will, because that’s the track on which my tidy whitey life runs (it's a sickly-sweet thing to ponder).
I loved my old life, my job, my family, the country-side, the laid-back lifestyle of the ultra-rural. And one day I chose liberty over love, for the purpose of newness of thought. I took up uncertainty and discomfort for the sake of the glittery unknown. I left behind a musty cycle of thoughts; I was bored by my own mind, like an old over-washed, over-worn wardrobe.
So I find myself in a new city, without a plan, without a friend; a page turned and the curly scroll of a new chapter heading. I come in search of the grace of arrival, of dispersion of the tension within me, a tension that is strung between the easy thing and the brave thing. I’m a long way away from that kind of grace, it probably doesn’t exist. The only point of arrival in life is death, and maybe not even that.
In the meantime my demons fight. Rather than an angel and a devil on my shoulders, I have a fat cherub and a feisty lioness. The one would have me be content with an average life, the sweet pleasures of a body’s basic needs met well; that pretty good is good enough, and that I have a right to a happy life. The other pulls my hair and pinches my arm, telling me to have courage, fight for the good of everyone, love foolishly, and above all, to write my own story. She’s sexier, and much scarier. They’re not on opposing ends of a spectrum, but act as little consciences. They are both true, and one is not better or more persuasive than the other.
Does every woman have a driving, incessant desire to be the most awesome goddess within herself? I hope so. Can you spend a moment imagining a world where every person is their best self? We should strive for it, dream of it, work toward it relentlessly, because the possibility is so very real. I can be the best that is in me, and so can you, and so can every person if they choose to. It’s not about sameness or rightness or goodness or intelligence or strength, just being the best at being you.
Disappointingly, vague musings aren’t going to move us all closer to our truths. Or maybe just a little bit. A best life requires a plan of action. I have no “normal” plans, like what I want to be when I grow up on that eventual Growing Up Day...I’m pretty sure there will be cake involved. The details are left intentionally blank, to be filled in by life itself within the structure of my choices. Sometimes I have visions of changing the world, of influencing public policy, of saving forests and topsoil, loving the unloved, thinking important thoughts, singing songs that break hearts. Maybe, maybe not. What I can carve is my own self.
So I set the simplest of goals, simple to understand but sometimes difficult to remember and always difficult to do. They are only achieved through the tool of self-discipline, which my lazy dumpling of a shoulder-angel tells me is too much work. I list them in order of my ease in accomplishing them, rather than importance. They’re seemingly unattainable. I am not particularly gifted or holy or strong-willed. It will be an uphill battle all the way to death’s door.
Be Honest.
Live Simply.
Honor Every Person. (love)
If I could manage to do these three things, other things would seem less important, like where I live, or how much money I make, and what job I have. What are your three things? What would make your life well-lived?
