A Catalogue of Memories

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I had dinner last night with one of the most radiant souls in the universe. She continually refreshes my spirit, connects me with what's real, and reminds me that it's okay to define your own happiness. Her defined happiness is constantly seeking purpose in her life, eschewing material things, having beautiful moments with friends and strangers alike (who don't stay strangers for long). She talked to me about choosing not to buy $400 shoes and $1200 handbags like her sister, but instead having the luxury of lying in bed at night and allowing her catalogue of memories to lull her to sleep. To me, this is truth.

This lovely friend of mine has the patina of a few more years than I do, she's had time to figure our her life in this amazing way. And for that I feel so fortunate to know her and be privy to her wisdom. Because I feel quite vulnerable at this age, succeptible to the call of the American Life. Have a successful career, aim for the promotion, make lots of money, get married, buy a house, have babies, rinse and repeat. Almost everyone I know subscribes to this American Life, creating a current that pulls at me and so many others. Some people may find truth in this life, but for me it's beginning to feel so false, so superficial, so unbalanced. Please don't misunderstand me - money makes life easier in so many ways, does and would make my life easier in so many ways. But if the toil of making that money eclipses happiness and simple moments of joy then for me it is not the right goal to seek. Nevertheless that current is still there, and so it takes great strength to move in a different direction. Thank you for your strength, beautiful friend.

It's memories like a heartfelt dinner with a soulmate of sorts that bolster me in my decision to strike out into the world, to travel and soak up new experiences like a sponge. To open my heart to different thoughts, different people. And to figure out how I will authentically define my own happiness.

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