doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your
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, to be 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; if you
can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it’s 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 the lake and shout to the silver of the full
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 to
feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I
want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not
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.
want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the
company you keep in the empty moments.