Walk into a restaurant in pink footy pajamas. Own it. Don’t sink into yourself. Everyone’s eyes are already on you; use their light to grow.
At the end of my life, I want to be wrinkled. I want smile lines so deep that hours after I shower I can unfold my face and water will run down my skin. It will look like tears, and yes, I have lived a life where I know those floodwaters, but they have not carved my skin, the canyons of flesh are formed from gratitude, hope and love, years of it. So, in this restaurant, smile.
Make a silly face at a nearby child and order your meal. Always tip and say your please’s after every request. And sweet potato fries please! A chocolate milkshake please. 20% and a thank you that drops out of your mouth like a gemstone, warm from your body. Make this a habit.
It’s okay if you slip on the concrete floor in your wet rain boots. That’s normal, walking can be hard. Giggle. There’s no way you can pretend no one saw you. You are an eighteen year old wearing a onsie covered in sheep the color of pepto bismol. But when you laugh at yourself, others will too and though your cheeks may be flushed, you are smiling at a room that is smiling right back at you.
I find that it is not always easy to collect love from the world.
But if I make myself vulnerable, if I let my walls down, then others do the same and suddenly love is so tangible, bursting out from behind bricks and mortar, exploding from sheetrock and concrete. It is humming in the air and I am bathing myself in this atmosphere. My body is porous, love rushing through my veins, pushing itself into my muscles and I am not only filled, but I store the excess, ready to pour out to anoint someone else.
Maybe, wearing a pink onsie to pick up dinner is not something you can do everyday, but it’s essence is something obtainable. Live and love with childlike exuberance. Let your joy be the first thing others see;, let your joy be naked, a true exhibitionist, let it run wild through hills of clover. And maybe buy yourself some new pajamas.