Notes For Creators

creative soul surfing

I want Tom Cruise to be a Scientologist; I WANT Romney to be Mormon!

Yes, I’ve got to say it emphatically: I want Tom Cruise to be a Scientologist and I want Mitt Romney to be a Mormon and I want Tim Tebow to be a devout Christian virgin. Though I want none of these things for myself, I passionately desire them for those for whom it matters.

I’ve got a hetero man-crush on Leo Babauta of Zen Habits. Here’s a guy who’s lost 70 pounds-ish, gone from cholesterol-swilling ways to vegetarian clean, swung his personal pendulum from debt and chaos to simplicity and accomplishment.

I discovered his blog shortly after beginning my own last year. He is a blog deity. He’s got followers and minions and would-be clones. He’s got admirers around the globe. And yet in every instance in which I’ve seen a photo or read of an encounter with Leo, he comes across as humble! He seems truly humbled by his experience. He comes across as thoughtful, engaged, as though he’s living his advice out loud . . . which is quietly.

That wouldn’t be me. At that level of success I’d have to employ daily pin prickers to deflate my ego. I’d be hugging everybody I met two, three times, more, till you got annoyed. I’d be so up I’d be a boor to be around.

But here’s what I’m saying  I admire the hell out of that man, but I wouldn’t want everyone to be him. Or me. No, I need debate. Maybe you do too. I thrive on vigorously varied viewpoints. Et tu?

I relish watching others live in ways that there’s just no damn way I’m going to. From Navy Seals to politicians to manic human energy expressed God knows how. I need it. I need for everyone to be utterly themselves. It’s the only way the world works well. We need the lion and the jackal and the field mouse.

I need my Tom Cruise to jump on a couch when he’s in love! Not enough people do it. 

I need my thoughts to be enlarged by contact with others who live differently. I require it like air. 

No, I won’t go on a hot-air balloon adventure around the globe with you, Richard Branson. And I won’t won’t go near your ta-tas, Pamela Anderson, for fear of chipping a tooth (oh, and I’m in life-long love). And no, I shan’t find myself one day drinking for days with you Charles Bukowski, whose every sentence is a taut revelation, not just because you’re dead, but also because it’s not me.

I need want require crave for all of you to be you. Thank you for being so very you! Your very you-ness helps me define my me-ness even better. 

Me ‘n’ you, different as could be. Can’t think of anything finer. 

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