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by Oriah Mountain Dreamer It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare
to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your
moon. I want to know if you have touched the center
of your own sorrow. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or
your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the
tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us
to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations
of being human. It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true
to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul. I want to know if you can see beauty even when
it is not pretty every day, and if you can source
your life from god’s presence. It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied. I want to know what sustains you
from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can still stand on the edge of
a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!” |
