I am not defined by your definition of me, nor by my definition of myself. My identity is no fixed thing. It does not have to be chosen nor identified and set in stone like a badge of honour to be worn and judged against.
No need to be a dick about it, but yeah, you need to look after yourself and let everyone else look after themselves.
A lot of caring folk get themselves all messed up with this concept.
Here’s the thing: You can’t ‘make’ someone else happy. Only they can do that for themselves.
I believe in magic. I believe in the inexplicable joining of souls…energies melding and melting into each other….keeping their uniqueness yet blending to create a beautiful synergy……Poetry. In. Motion.
I don’t really get the whole “I need to lock myself in a cabin alone in the woods for a month so I can write” thing. I know people do it. I know it can work. And yet, I doubt it will ever work for me.
I need to experience life in order to be inspired. I need connection and relationships.
I need the feelings that come from that first bolt of lightening as you look into clear blue eyes, the feeling of being bear hugged by someone who loves you, or of my cheek muscles aching from laughing so much. And yes, sometimes even the pain of mismatched expectations to give contrast and context to the joy.
This being of service thing can be super conflicting. You have a purpose. Maybe you know what it is. Maybe you’re still figuring that part out. But you sure as hell know that you weren’t put on this Earth to do nothing.
And so you know it has to do with service. You know it’s to do with leaving the world a better place than you found it but…you also want to have a good time whilst you’re here.
Everything is perfect. Everything is perfect. Everything is perfect.
Even when it’s hard. Even when there are tears. Even when it’s awesome and super scary all at the same time.