water wants to move

I ran in the stars this morning.  They were not so random, but intentionally amazing me.

Early on, I noticed they were watching.  I could not make it out, but I thought they were whispering.  As my mind goes, I was sure they were dismissing "another 'runner' ... he will never stick with it."  

Midway through my footsteps in the dark, I was sure I could make out "he pushes himself at times, so maybe ..."  

As habit brought me back to the starting place, my deep breaths -- warmer now -- assured me they could continue on.  They even tempted me with the stars.  

And I could hear the stars more clearly now.  There was no judgment.  They were witnessing.  Me.  No more.  And I wonder.  If they marveled at how a runner in the dark found joy, if they found beauty in me doing in the simplest way what is in my nature.  From their vast spectacle, did they contemplate me.

Spectators of the Revolution

You've never settled so this does not apply to you.  Read no further.

If you have settled in some way, it started with innocuous, nearly involuntary compromise.  But how routine has it become.  I know.  Me too.

For today, it began with sneeze of twitter that nearly came and went.  It seems even at his age, he was "working circles around" the younger folks.  Yes, but ...

I wanted to reply with great wisdom, but never made it beyond "so".  Even that never made it to my fingers - the keyboard - and the series of tubes.  I almost said, "the thing about working in circles is that it takes you in you-know-whats."  And I wanted to say how sad someone is going to be when your tombstone says how productive you were.  Then my mind's eye interrupted.  I saw my tombstone.  It said "PRODUCTIVE" and there was a sticker, and a URL to LinkedIn.  The more I almost replied to Working Circles Around, the more I was already painted into a corner.

Scene II.  Fitter Happier.  So Working Circles Around drove me to a piece of art.  It's honest to say this uber-original work haunts me.  It comes to me at the end of the day.  It looks at me with all the dead pan only the most taking faces can pull off, and it quips, "boy! When your head hits the pillow tonight, you'll know you affected some resources today.  Mmm, what a legacy."

And what can I say.  The phrase 'make a living, not a dying' comes to mind.

Intermission.  So amid vomiting my personal passionless life, I find myself saying "I'm going to do it this time.  I'm going to live.  I'll jump up out of the Box, lurk for the first person to ask what I'm doing, and I'll insert the Box in his mouth."  (That will be my first work of art.  The Box is not so small that it fits well inside one's mouth.)  Then I'll draw the quick, deep breath one takes leaving the diving board

And, Preamble:  The thing about those of us (spectators) who come right up to the edge and almost live is how we love to marvel at those who do.  We can talk to you all day about those who inspire, the ones who rise and live, the folks who star when we wax on about how they really "broke the mold."  Go on and on.  Now I realize.  All the time I spend bragging about how bold, how strong, how original are those who have taken the leap -- it is placebo.  As I talk about them, I am self-medicating, quenching my personal little urge to be the leaper.  I write a little, I feel connected.  Until I say it aloud, I almost believe I took the leap.  After all, I wrote about it.  I said it.  I imagined how the fulfillment and the glory tasted.  I shared it, which must count for something.  At least so long as I keep writing, I can't be expected to take my own leap.

But enough.  How much longer before I flush the placebo -- before I trade writing for leaping.  Not one more second will aggregate.  Not that it's for you, but watch me now.  

You are my accountability partner.  I don't hear you yet, but I see you.  I can see the "sure you will" on your face, so I hope you keep watching.  Really.  One of us is going to be walking around with a mouth full of The Box.  One of us.

{As we continue, you are encouraged to challenge my willingness, my method, and ultimately whether I (in light of my proclamation this day) truly leap.  And as you return, I will endeavor not to waste your time.}

lift the lid

... I have no lid up on my head but if I did, you could look inside and see what's on my mind

On to the worthwhile:

Loving matters: "The sun is so hot, little girl. Mind your tiny wings."

If BHJ loves like BHJ writes, learn from him. And love a ton. And if you want to write, do it like him.

Beauty : it's all around, under, in, above, next to, and through you, and you can appreciate it deeply without taking away from it. See like Jonathan Fields, and write like him. Be where you are.

Share: When it reaches you, pass it on. Don't you know you create when you give.

Live: Run for your life. Yes, Run. It's your life. Or be a gerbil in a wheel. Choose now. There's a radiohead song if you're having trouble discerning the question.

Passion: live like you mean it.

{Here's where you help. Notice no link for the last entry? Know a blogger who eminates passion, who lives an uber-passionate day every day? Call 'em out in the comments, because I'm looking. The Pooh thanks you in advance.}

Passion -- [read in a whisper] could she be The One? She feels. She speaks up. And not in a walks-up-to-you-saying-"excuse-me-but..." sort of way. Yes, read The Queen. Thank Pooh.

And wait, The Bloggess: She's a total adverb -- a category all her own; I don't know just what to say about her, but when she's streamed a ream of consciousness at you, all you can say is "I gotta get me some of this. I'm soo coming back." The Bloggess is the kid on the playground who taught you the f-bomb and the smart kid you teased about the great grades. Read her. She'll help you be less ordinary.

{She'll also help you find people who will enrich your life ... see her comment below, get to I Obsess, and stick that brilliance in your reader.}

Grasshopper, Dead Ahead!

Master Po: [once he defeats young man] Ha, ha, never assume because a man has no eyes he cannot see. Close your eyes. What do you hear? 

Young Caine: I hear the water, I hear the birds. 
Master Po:  Do you hear your own heartbeat? 

Young Caine: No. 
Master Po:  Do you hear the grasshopper that is at your feet? 

Young Caine: Old man, how is it that you hear these things? 
Master Po: Young man, how is it that you do not?

~

Just as the Titanic struck its grasshopper, are you careening toward disaster that would be averted but for your din of busyness.  

What would you do right now were someone to flip the breaker and take the battery from your phone and laptop.  Where would that leave you.

Do you see beyond your email and IM clients, your RSS feeds and podcasts.  What remains.  

Is your info-noise habit nothing more than firefighting foam that you rake in with both hands, even while it smothers your gasp.

You're up on everything? and nothing?

Look in a new way.

Look no further, Mr. Kim.  I'm your man.

Together we step away from the noise, see what we see.  (It is there, after all.)

Come back for more.

Unless you are satisfied.

until you snatch the pebble from my hand ...

I walk the earth, much like you. 

I see the footprints behind me and learn that perhaps I keep finding what it is that I have sought. 

You have come here. Like the sun and the flowing water also reveal, we might help one another seek and see.