“You are so alive." Four words found in my e-mail inbox this morning.
Sweet, wonderful words from a sweet, sad soul.
Soaring as a fresh incarnation of myself, Jodie 2.0, I get what the words mean. There’s a monumental difference between “living” and being “alive”. I dress differently. I make mistakes and bad choices in men and forgive myself. I soak in those I want to be like and who inspire me, writers, musicians, artists. Men and women who are boisterous and eat every kind of food at least once and go to bed with someone even when it’s more great fun than true love and are comfortable with sexuality and who don’t flip off drivers in traffic but smile at them instead because why not and stay up all night listening to music they thought they wouldn't like and make the first move and want to know everything about everyone. I desire people I can start fires with.
Being alive is more than flesh and bone and breathing in and out. It’s keeping the blinds and windows open, stopping to pet a dog, burning loads and loads of scented candles for no particular reason, recognizing and ridding toxic behavior, refusing to let it soak in or the smell to linger. Alive is laughter, the throw-your-head-back-from-the-belly kind; striking a conversation with anyone anywhere, whether the man sitting alone next to you or the awkward boy checking out your groceries; playing music loud in the car; enjoying the dark chocolate orange scones just out of my oven and not being overly concerned they’re a bit underdone and crumbly.
I could go on and on and on…