How to begin again, continued

OPTIONAL:

• Light lots of candles, and every time they don’t burn down your house smugly think, I AM THE MASTER OF FIRE. I AM THE MASTER OF MY DESTINY!
• Make space for both quiet and joyful noise. Breaking silence by humming or warbling with ridiculously exaggerated vibrato doesn’t fix a blessed thing — but it feels good to fill a room with nothing but one’s own lungs and a little stubborn hope.
• Keep promises to yourself. One of mine is to dance whenever I’m alone in an elevator; sometimes that has meant full-on booty-shaking, and other times it’s been deploying half-hearted shimmies between sobs — but it all counts, and the point is simply to stave off our inevitable deaths with a little flair.
• Try listening to:
  1) strangers’ conversations in public spaces {my recent favorite being a table of older people arguing over the best recipe for spiked eggnog};
  2) the voices, whether internal or external, that remind you you’re worthy of love, as you are right now;
  3) the song “Blue Healer” by Birdtalker {the best mantra I never wanted};
  4) On Being podcast episodes with Greg Boyle, Alain de Botton, and Pádraig Ó Tuama, which are inspiring and often hilarious. {I listen every day to what Ó Tuama reads at the 44:30 minute marker — so lovely.}
• Move your body. Shake that meaty skeleton like nobody’s watching — which they are, because you’re standing in the middle of Home Depot. An interesting choice for spontaneously breaking into the Macarena, but look at you go!
• Don’t make the same mistakes I have {and still do} in underestimating the power of: long hugs, long walks, second chances, soaring architecture, a doubtful-croaky prayer that consists only of be with me, new rituals that capitalize on aloneness, and favorite movies watched from under a warm blanket, E.T.-style.

REQUIRED:

• Fight mercilessly for the most hopeful, whole-hearted version of yourself. If you find a way to outsource this terrible process, PLEASE let me know.
• Remember that whatever cold and broken hallelujahs we can manage are enough. If we’re patient, over time, they’ll become a little less of both.