I’m that “one more thing” kinda gal. One more look before you leave. One more thing I need. One more thing I’m forgetting. The “one mores” of everything. I thought I could always choose that one more thing. Do that one more thing. Maybe you did too.
But now I want to tell you one more thing.
“Stay. I want you to make more memories. Don’t worry, we’ll deal with the sad, give you power and illuminate the good.”
So, do that one more thing…make the good choice, put the bad choice down, and just stay.
“Amy [Winehouse] increasingly became defined by her addiction. Our media though is more interested in tragedy than talent, so the ink began to defect from praising her gift to chronicling her downfall. The destructive personal relationships, the blood soaked ballet slippers, the aborted shows, that YouTube madness with the baby mice. In the public perception this ephemeral tittle-tattle replaced her timeless talent. This and her manner in our occasional meetings brought home to me the severity of her condition. Addiction is a serious disease; it will end with jail, mental institutions, or death.”
There were so many times in my life when I had it all figured out.
It’s a big shit thing, to have it all figured out. Never mind the fact that it was chicken scratch math. Never mind the fact that the cosmos were laughing harder than a Robin Williams audience. Never mind the fact that I wasn’t seeing the reality because I was too busy believing the unreality.
And then? Reality came along and punched me in the face.
Time. And time. And time. And time. And time. And time. And time. And? Yeah, time. Again.
It was epic fail shit, squared. It felled me in every kind of undulating way, curvaceous shape and hellacious form. It beat me senseless, rendered me useless. It owned me. Yeah, plain ass fact of the matter, owned.
And so, you ask. How the hell do you get back? To anywhere? From that?
It’s a great fucking question. And the answer is hard to find, probably because the answer is inside you. And, as most of us have come to learn the hard way, the mirror can pose the longest of all possible odds. Possession is eleventh tenths of that law of human nature that says it’s you against you. And this is why you have to get selfish. You have to get solid on the idea that selfish? Is the abbreviation for self preservation.
Don’t get me wrong here. This doesn’t mean to say that it’s cool to go out and pillage the village you came from. Nah, ah. No. The wherever it is you came from is not asking for your shit. It doesn’t care about your shit. And in most cases? It doesn’t deserve your shit. The bad shit you came from is your hurdle. The answer that’s fighting like hell to rise above the surface are your legs. And so it goes, that your jumps are a matter of the belief and conviction that were borne out of the forgettable practice that went into possessing them.
You can let the bad shit own you, or you can own the bad shit your damn self.
It’s about making the jump count.
You transcended time. Your beauty and grace bought you fame and fortune and your wisdom bought my respect and admiration.
You died alone that day, and I always have to ask . . . What were you thinking? I have to believe that maybe, just maybe, things would have been different, could have been different. If only one person could have felt your pain . . could have let you know it didn’t have to mean the end. Maybe that one person could have been the difference between losing yourself to the drugs and finding your way out.
I wear a t-shirt with your funny, naughty smile. It’s a smile that moves the sun into the rainiest of days. A smile that proves God knew what he was doing when he made you.
My only wish is that you would have known that too.
Having nothing to lose means you have everything to gain.
It’s not about perfection any longer. And this is when you realize, it never was about perfection in the first place. Because no matter what it is that you’re intent on doing, you’re gonna get it wrong a hell of a lot more often than you’re gonna get it right. Anything that’s ever been done- been done well, been done seriously- has met with mind numbing failure. Show me a successful person and I will show you a person that’s been to their wit’s end many times over; inside of times they thought were too trying, inside of challenges they believed were too great. Their success had as much to do with soul as it did with skills. They didn’t stop driving when the road seemed an impossible thing to figure out.
And once they arrived at the place they’d worked so hard to get to, not a single fucking person ever said to themselves, “That’s perfect”. Nah, ah. They knew such an idea for what it is. Bullshit. Nothing’s perfect but God, and since He showed up before the rest of us, we’ll never know if the pristine reputation hid blemishes. And that’s alright, because his finished project was pretty amazing.
And that’s the point.
Forget what it means to be perfect. Instead, remember what it means to be a human being. The qualities of which are written in frailty. Being a human being, you learn quickly that life ain’t a cupcake social. It’s some really hard shit that can play your soul into an early grave- figuratively, literally, spiritually. But the one thing life cannot do is take your soul away. It’s always gonna be there for you. It’s been your partner through the desperate hours inside of way too many nowhere nights. And when you had no idea what was gonna happen, your soul had it covered. It’s never going to judge your steps. It’s never going to throw you away. It’s never going to tell you that the road isn’t worth trying to figure out.
The soul reminds us that weakness can be strength. It’s amazing when you come to understand that you really are stronger than you’re giving yourself credit for, and the reason why is because you’re not perfect. Every loss becomes a gain. Your stories will speak to this. Don’t worry about prettying up the words. Fairy tales are for Disney.
Your road has a story. Bring it.