The Invitation
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 centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life betrayals or have become shrivelled 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 jot, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasty fill you to the tipsof your fingers and toes, without cautioning us to be careful.
it doesn't interest me if the story you are telling 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; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
i want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the moon.
it doesn't interest me where you live or how much money you have.
i want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done.
i want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments