The Invitation

The Invitation
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 dream,
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,
If you have been opened by life's betrayals,
Or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

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, realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are 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 be faithless and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty
Even when it is not pretty every day,
And if you can source your own life
From its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure,
Yours and mine,
And still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
Weary and bruised to the bone,
And do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
In the center of the fire with me
And not shrink back.

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 be alone
With yourself,
And if you truly like the company you keep
In the empty moments.

Sultry, Ashton, and Mickey Spillane

Tuesdays have come to be my favorite days of the week, for it is on those days that I spend time with my friend.

Today was Tuesday. 

A typical Tuesday totals tremendous trust and tribulation (I LOVE alliteration). 

Allow me to start again...  THAT sentence was just to send one particular reader reeling, trying to figure out if it's time to count syllables, or what he is to do now.  He will either (1) ask me the meaning of alliteration the next time I see him or (2) have looked it up himself in some old dusty, real dictionary (why trust Google to take seconds when you can spend ten minutes looking it up yourself?), or (3) he will have an alliteration planned for me and my enjoyment and will do the equivalent of "performing" it for me just to prove that I can't get one over on him. Or, in his recently learned language of "the times," just to prove that he's "The Bomb". 

I look forward to any of the three.

God, I love him!

Again, a typical Tuesday has me in the last appointment of the day and will last as long as is needed.  I like to think it's because I'm special, engaging, and/or intriguing when it truly could be because it takes him longer than 50 minutes to figure me out.  There has to be the introductory banter between the two of us.  This is enjoyable to me because it's enjoyable to him.  I like -- no, I crave being enjoyed. 

That is followed with a series of what I characterize as compliments to which, after almost a year and a half, I'm growing more accustomed to.  Should I say anything other than a resounding, "THANK YOU!" which is the equivalent to me of, "I KNOW I'M GREAT!", I am sufficiently scolded until I answer somewhat closer to expectation.  So, I become coy and reluctant, and try to match the level of enthusiasm expected.  If I come close, I get it repeated for me by him trying to match my voice, my facial expression, my eyes  --  whatever it is he happened to notice.  Then, I get asked to repeat the same expression.  Doesn't he know I can't?  It's natural.  It's me.  It comes out and you'd better catch it then because you may not get it again. Nah.  He doesn't know that.  He's just enjoying me. 

And just recently, I was informed that these were not compliments as I have labeled them in my mind for some time now.  "They are truths," I am told. 

Does one say "thank you" in response to a truth?  On Tuesdays, one'd better do it or suffer the scolding of someone who will persist until I acquiesce. As though my arm had been bent behind my back and I was to say, "Uncle".  Instead, it's "thank you" with sincerity that better be as close to real as I can get it to look.

I think I'm supposed to believe what is being said to me  -- this compliment or "truth".  That is still a work in progress.

Today was NOT a typical Tuesday.  I was NOT in the last appointment of the day, but instead was a 3:00.  Meaning two things.  First, there was someone in the waiting room waiting to get into MY seat before I was finished with it.  Second, there was an office assistant (aka "wife") chomping at the bit and sending odd sounds to ring through the iPhone as someone else tends to lose track of time when I'm in the room. 

Today, with one hour rather than two or more, I had to get down to business.  I had to use my teacher voice and mannerisms on occasion and even hold up one finger to stop someone from interrupting so that I could get from point A to Z in that one hour.  Generally, I allow for some processing, some questions, some advice.  Today, the questions had to be five words or less.  No advice.  Basically, a "shut up and listen".

I am not at fault for how I had to handle today.  I created this blog as a way to communicate some things and even directed my friend to this blog via the iPhone.  However, I needed to be extremely specific as in, "This is a blog.  A blog is a .....  I wrote this blog.  You should have this read before you see me next." 

I sometimes think that when there's the same level of intelligence and wit that there's the same level of understanding of the unspoken.  In other words, I often .... this is going to cause a chuckle, but I often forget that my friend is a male.  As a disclaimer, there is nothing feminine about him.  He just cannot read my mind like my girlfriends can do. 

Today, Lord have mercy, I nearly threw the entire time off track when I described a recent event as "sultry".  A lover of words like me, I swear he tried to spend a full five minutes on the word "sultry".  "Where did I get that word?"  A:  Out of my head.  "I haven't heard that word in many years."  A:  Yes, so..... "Wait a minute.  Do you know who Mikey Spillane is?"

I could literally hear brakes squeal in the room right then.  Do I know who Mickey Spillane is?  Seriously!?!  Do you realize that you did not (again) read my mind via my text which has put us inordinately behind, and I've already done a public speaking stint today and I'm on my game, and I've got one hour to get from A to Z, and you want to talk about Mickey Spillane!?! 

I agreed to Google Mickey when I got home which I have done.  The most interesting fact is one that could give away my location.  But the whole road to Mickey Spillane came from the word "sultry".  Mickey Spillane must have written about "sultry" women. I have no clue and had to set about describing what sultry meant to me.  And because it might not be entirely obvious to my small audience, I've inserted a video of the song and the singer.  Perhaps one should read before watching the video.  Perhaps one will do whatever IN the hell one wants to do and would be O-ffended at being told how to navigate a blog.  In spite of the fact that one doesn't know what in the hell a blog is even thought he's looking at one right now.  Am I correct?  Indeed, I am.

Sultry, defined, for me, involves some props.  "The shoes," which will require another post another time, are sultry all by themselves.  In fact, my friend and I have all but given a stronger definition to the shoes.  But I digress.  This time, I was barefooted and sultry.  Windows open.  Alone.  Working on a great bottle of cabernet.  Losing my inhibitions.  Short shirt.  Sitting in a club chair sideways while I cross my legs, kick my feet up, throw my head back.  Sipping the wine.  Skirt riding up.  And listening to Diana.  Getting up, walking through the room on my tip toes with just a little swing to my hips.  Singing along with her because I know the words in my sleep.  And repeat.

Mickey Spillane?  Hell, I didn't need anybody named Mickey to be sultry.  To feel sultry.  I can get there all on my own. 

So don't plan for me to give a dissertation on Mickey Spillane next week.  I Google him.  I find myself and Diana far more sultry than Mickey.