Thank you, Jason Mraz, for the title of this blog.
Manhattan's on TV and siren's are sounding outside: "A local authority has initiated a direct community access." This just flashed across the TV screen, and then in a soft female voice, I hear: "This is only a test."
WTF? What's not a test? Isn't just showing up here day after day after a day a test to see how you do in this moment? Isn't everything an opportunity to say fuck it and do it your way as only you can do? Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it...fuck everything. Just show up and be present. Nothing else ever matters.
When my father was dying, I stood by his hospital bed waiting for one word, just one word that let me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was loved as wildly and feverishly by him as I loved him. I had waited to hear his car pull up every evening. I couldn't wait to open his door before he could even turn off the ignition. The safest place in the world had always been with my head pressed against his chest and his arms squeezing me close. Years later at the ripe old age of 24, I stood beside his bed, holding his hand waiting to hear any whispers that he might utter. After hours of waiting, I heard his words: "Make sure you get all the belts counted in the bay. Inventory is due before the week's over." His eyes were open, but he looked away from me as if one of his employees was on the other side of the room. Those were the last words I heard him speak.
My father's taught me so much in life, about life, and about what's important in living. As we walked down the aisle together with my soon-to-be husband at the altar, my father told me while smiling to the crowd in the pews that I could just say the word and we'd turn around and leave the church. I plastered a smile on my face and kept walking forward. Four years later he was in that hospital room. He had just turned 58. He worked all day and all night. The word relax was not in his vocabulary. I learned that naps were unheard of, that any moment not working was a wasted moment, and that I needed to justify my reason for being by making money, cleaning, etc. Move, move, move...do, do, do...
I'm now inching towards the age my dad was back in that hospital room, and I'm rearranging how I view what's important to me. The doing isn't as essential as the being. I move when I breathe. I see the grand view instead of the little dramas. I breathe instead of scream. I relax. I take naps. I enjoy my moments instead of constant planning, achieving, and setting and resetting goals. I show up. I just show up and allow the magic to happen.