How many people do we become—even if we remain, in essence, ourselves? How many versions of ourselves exist? Is it infinite? Tapping into, revising, revisiting, coming into … who I am in the mountains, who I am at the beach, who I am with you. My headspace and my heart changes with the landscape. I’m always meeting people because of my work but never really spending time with them, never really going all that deep. (Just because I don’t say it, doesn't mean I don’t see it—but years can have a way of closing you off, and I wish I knew how to undo that … or, rather, redo.)
At least whether I die tomorrow or in another 50 years, I can say I’ve lived. I don’t mean I’ve gotten drunk and high and gotten into wild misadventures, though there was that. I mean I’ve loved, over and over again. I’ve had my heart broken and have watched it grow back together, so that I can fall in love all over again. I’ve prayed hard, and I’ve heard those subtle, solid responses that leave no trace of doubt. I’ve traveled long roads on my own, driving from Maryland to Maine, Florida, California and back, under sun and stars. Just me and g-d and the whole universe and everyone I hold dear, all of it inside me. I’ve been honest, because I can't imagine being anything else. I’ve been sick, in hospitals, vulnerable and thinking about my own mortality much too young, although I’d been thinking about it anyway.
I’ve (mostly) given up trying to make sense of everything.
I believe in divine timing. I believe that the ocean makes everything right. I believe in the human experience. I believe in the power of a good night’s sleep. I believe in people. I believe in love. My manifesto is simple.