These days my sleep is so much better that I tend to wake up with inspiring ideas or full memory of an extravagant dream. This morning I woke with both. I was flooded with images of people from high school and where they are today, some smiling, some sad, some serious, some mad (as in crazy). They are all kinds of successful in all kinds of ways with each success taking wildly different form.
For some, success is as simple as sipping a homemade double espresso whilst typing out random prose at 7am on a Saturday with one’s dog hiding under one’s adjustable IKEA standing desk because of the thunderstorm outside while proof-reading on a 60” TV screen that doubles as a bike trainer, movie screen, and occasional gaming system. Success to others means being present for those physically closest to them, or to be free from the crushing stress and pressure to excel according to someone else’s definition of excellence. For many, success is knowing God’s wrath and damnation are the inventions of truly evil patriarchs seeking hypocritical power, lust, and control over others. Others consider success being able to spend time on oneself, one’s creativity, and one’s health, being able explore and learn anything and everything.
In case you didn’t guess, that’s how I define success. Every time I forgot what my success looks like I get discombobulated. The fact is I’ve never been happier than I am right now. I have it all. I have love. I have my health. And I have the freedom and means to follow my bliss. I don’t need anything more.
Do I have a lot of money, a big house, fame, and influence? Not really. So many have far less financially than I do. I have every reason to be grateful. I do have enough money to keep my immediate family alive and supported as they find and follow their own bliss. But that’s all I need.
From the outside, many would look at my humble life and see failure. I know because some have said so (which seems just so sad thinking back on it now). I live in the cheapest possible apartment, surrounded by stuff we don’t want to pay to store, eating well but never going out. My “toys” cost much less than the boats, RVs, and four-wheelers that pass me on mine while I “vacation” on a long, affordable bike ride, splurging on a 10 dollar burrito. I have no house, no illegal immigrants maintaining my lawn, no titles, no enhanced certificates hanging on the wall, no fancy clothes, and no secrets to hide.
My life is an open book. One some avid readers might discover on a dusty library shelf hidden away from the flashy, shallow best-sellers. My tome is heavy and long, the kind most morons would overlook, filled with stories of love, exploration, and adventure that take time to consume, savour, and comprehend; the kind that would take years to get through waiting for one six-minute egg every morning. I’m hungry.