At the moment, I am full of inspiration.  Brimming.  The cup runneth over.  And I recognize that the challenge is to integrate, to absorb so that the vessel is empty (or half-full if you’re an optimist) and I can fill up yet again.  What is this human experience that we’ve signed up for?  How do you define and measure happiness or success?  By lessons learned, or battle scars upon your heart proving that you loved deeply and were hurt even deeper?  By your bank statement, or your job title or the amount of years spent in a University?  How do you measure impact or contribution or define “a good life”?

Here’s what floats my sails these days:  It makes me giggle-happy.  Cheshire-cat grin-happy, with all 32 teeth gleaming forth their pearly white.  (28, if you’ve had your wisdom teeth pulled).  Maybe you can tell me if inspiration equals crazy.  Because what is bringing me joy, more than almost anything other than yoga, is walking my dog along the boardwalk by the sea with my earbuds in and singing out loud.  I say singing out loud, rather than “singing at the top of my lungs” because “singing at the top of my lungs” implies that one is shouting.  However, when I say singing, I do.  Mean.  Singing.

Singing with mouth wide open, diaphragm contracting, voice belting.  And with those earbuds plugged in, I sing GOOD.  I mean, I sound just like the band.  And since I sing so good, I sing even LOUDER.  I should apply for one of those Idol shows, I’d probably win.  Simon would fall in love with me and Paula Abdul too.  I gesticulate, and toss my head in the air and close my eyes and dance-walk-bounce.  And I sing!

For the sheer thrill of seeing the expressions on the faces of the passersby. 

Judging from their quizzical expressions, half-smiles and semi-grimaces, apparently I might not sound exactly like Adele, but I don’t care.  My dog doesn’t care.  (Although she gives me the same look from time-to-time.)  I’m having so much fun!

During one of these walks, I watched a man skip a stone across a windless sea surface.  It skipped at least fourteen times.  He had the technique:  the sideways tilt to his body, the open up your chest and stretch the shoulder to the fullest extreme of a wind-up, the sharp snap as shoulder rippled to elbow, elbow rippled to wrist, wrist snapped to fingertip and that smooth stone was sent into a horizontal trajectory, bouncing first off the water, spinning at top speed and you begin the count, one, careening forward, orbiting, leaving only circles spreading in its wake, two,  strike the surface tension only briefly before being propelled again forward, spinning even faster, three, arcing over the smooth sea face, striking, four, losing some momentum and now the circles start to overlap, five, but still moving forward, six, still spinning, with no telling when it will lose steam, seven, and it keeps bouncing, eight, and you hold your breath, nine, and then….. teneleventwelvethirteenpbbbbttthhhhhhhh.

I moved again.  Without fanfare, with a pro-like efficiency.  Packed.  Unpacked.  Settled.  Home.    

It’s a plateau time of life.  I feel like the pbbbbthhhh part of the stone-skip.  That part of the trajectory that still moves forwards, bouncing along, but bounce running into bounce.  Move running into move.  Without romance or drama or suspense.

Pbbbtttthhhhhh…..But that’s okay.  Because that just loosens up my lips so I can keep on singing!


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