To Think, All Those Times I Cried About Oily Skin.

Anne,

I don't know either.

I don't even know how to defend myself in bars against conservative barista friends.

I also think you got it right with the walking, and the nature, and the wild.

Which is part of why this never makes sense.

Like something very big is very mad.

And I'll do anything, anything you say.

I like his voice.

I like it over spaghetti, Perrier, and rain on roof.

Then I feel guilty for having the courage/time/blindness to even prepare a meal.

Then I stop and listen hard to everything he is saying.

Because he is addressing me.

Because I am an American whether I like it or not.

Whether I ever understand what exactly that means.

If I could just once,

Just one instant of one day,

Stop wondering why my pants are snug around the hips,

But loose around the waist,

And long at the bottom,

Then maybe I too,

Could do,

Something.

After I finish my dinner,

And my listen,

And my kiss.

I'm learning that there are times when it is indeed appropriate to walk into the blood shot eyes of the storm to save the future of a friend, or plunge down the side of the mountain to save a dog, or dive naked into the Indiana quarries for fun, or just get in the fucking car and drive into traffic, three damn miles to the neighborhood church, or God forbid; Dominick's. You know, whatever might be scary, or accomplished only after unyielding amounts of faith, abandon, and love.

I'm learning that not everything is about or because of my mother.

I'm learning that the world is sometimes just as sad as I am without ever knowing my mother.

And that that would make me, at times, stronger then the world, and in a position to help.

I'm learning that sometimes it is right and good to do nothing.

To bask in the absence of this plane, and float effortlessly onto the next.

But, even that takes effort.

So, grow up.

Sometimes they and it are blood sucking vampires to stay away from.

And sometimes it's time to stop sleeping in coffins and trust your own ability.

I love you Anne Lamott.

Most of what I write is learned from you,

And thanks to you,

Skin and Toast