The Invitation

0 Comments

I love this poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer:

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 doesnt 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’s 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 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 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 at the edge of the 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
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 centre 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.

Marci Darling

I lie here on my pink puffy bed in my pink silky pajamas, or pink flannel depending on my mood (the only thing you can bank on is that there will be chocolate smeared somewhere on my attire), with my pink feathered pen, writing my most delicious daydreams. Funny? Sometimes. Scandalous? Hopefully. Inspiring? Perhaps. Full of love? Always.

Welcome to my World.

Similar Posts

  • | | | | |

    Ode to Joy: The Cello

    Hours

    Today, without knowing why, I found myself driving to the cello store, then hiking around my backyard forest with it in my arms. I sat down on an ancient rock and moved the bow across the strings until it finally started to fill the air with its sumptuous sensual tones. I wanted to play it by the fire and by the waterfall. I wanted to play for my pink flowers, dripping ferns, and fairy rocks. This time the cello didn’t make me weep, it made me laugh in delight and skip back down the hill.

  • Tentacles and Testicles

    Hours

    Today I was reading stories to Annabelle and Henry and one had an octopus in it. I was reading it and I was supposed to say “The octopus reached out one tentacle” but I said “The octopus reached out one testicle.” This made me laugh hysterically. The kids just stared at me.Today was one of those days where we spent six hours outside–it was gorgeous, 80 degrees, sunny, and by 3pm, I was ready to go to bed. We spent…

  • | | | | | |

    Grief and the Holidays

    Hours

    I’ve written before how death and divorce can make holidays especially piercing, seeing everyone with their loved ones when so many of mine are now gone.

    This is the first Easter in 6 years that didn’t feel like I was being stabbed with 1,000 tiny pins all day long.
    I wondered why the feelings changed. Was it time? People love to say, “time heals all wounds,” but I have not found that to be true for me. In my experience, some wounds never heal.

    I miss my beloveds all day every day. The pain remains, as big and all-consuming as ever, but the more it tries to pull me down, to destroy me, the more ferociously I create: writing, dancing, filming, creating…

    I have learned to live with loss and grief, it is a part of who I am, and though I wish this wasn’t true, it is: grief is also an integral part of my children, and I know they feel the loss a little extra on holidays too.

  • Rant

    Hours

    My Oh My… Let’s see, today has been CRAZY! I can barely see right now because vinegar was splashed in my eye today. Annabelle and I were doing science experiments and we were investigating acids, bases, and neutrals, and Annabelle picked up the test tube of vinegar and and it flew out and splashed in my eye. PAIN! I stumbled to the sink screaming expletives, my eye on fire, and took out the faucet and squirted it directly into my…

  • Burlesque Stars with Questionable Memories

    Hours

    I can’t believe she didn’t remember me! How could she not remember me? I performed with her every week for more than a year! I sat in her crappy van with her while she practiced her opera, drank a gallon of water, and glued austrian crystal rhinestones on her shoes! She used the van to transport her props–her giant champagne glass, her costume made of more than a thousand peacock feathers, her enormous gilded birdcage, the one with a fountain…

  • Butterflies and Blueberries

    Hours

    A few months ago, Henry and Annabelle became interested in butterflies. They love to watch them flutter around the park. We read The Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle and decided we would like to see exactly how a caterpillar would become a butterfly. We ordered some caterpillars and put them in a cage. We fed them and watched the miraculous process of growing, cocooning, and becoming Monarch Butterflies. We fed them oranges and set them free. Henry and Annabelle were…

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *