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
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 dreams, 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
from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain,
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 ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without
cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being a human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re 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.
I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore trustworthy. I
want to know if you can see beauty even if it’s not pretty every day,
and if you can source your life from God’s presence. I want to know if you can live
with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a
lake and shout to the silver moon, ‘Yes!’
It doesn’t interest me 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, bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center 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
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.