Yesterday as I went about being 100% myself (that means I behave in ways that feel true to me), I was scolded four times. Four. I can’t remember if there was ever a day in my life where I was scolded more than twice.

I love hugs. I was a serial dater for a while mostly for the hugs. This isn’t always the best trade, the promise of relationship for the rush of oxytocin I got from extended hugs. Oxytocin, the chemical that tells me Everything is okay; you are merging with another human; you are not alone; you are loved.

Having a room for dreams attached to your head is a wonderful thing unless, say, you are a high school student who is being asked to be present and to be focused. Or unless, say, someone is asking you to submit a business proposal and you aren’t even really there. Having a room for dreams means I have one foot in my life and one foot somewhere else, anywhere else.

I read the other day scientists have recorded the sound of mice singing. It turns out that those little guys sing to each other as the scurry about the walls of our houses. What else is singing that I do not hear? I am hoping that my five-year-old ears will hear more, will hear the songs, will know that this whole time, my whole life, the world has been singing to me, my house has been singing to me, to me and to Laura Foote and to you, and I just didn’t hear it. 

I have learned something that helps me teach writing. People tend to circle around the real story, the trigger point of what makes them compelled to write. I can tell when they are circling when they talk and the stories just spill out, stories these people clearly have been telling for years, if not for most of their lives. The stories are on greased tracks and they are not the thing. The thing is something else.

I said I love adoption because I’ve come to the conclusion that hating adoption is the same as hating myself, and I’ve decided that before I die I’m going to love me the same way I love the sky. Without question. Purely.

I think my birth father is a hero for flying here to meet me. He owned his part in the dance. He hugged me. He is the one talking about future Thanksgivings, not me. That stuff will work itself out. But we did it. We connected the dots. And I am proud of both of us. It’s what should have happened. We are not born to be alone in the world. We are born to connect. It’s what keeps us alive. 

What I see is that when people realize they carry these limiting beliefs and laugh at how ridiculous they are, magic happens. People are amazing, and what I’ve seen, again and again, is that amazement springs from honesty. When you hit onto the truth of who you are and what you believe and what you love, you turn into light. Anything is possible.

After twenty years of teaching writing, I think the biggest hurdle a person faces in feeling free to exist on the page (and in life) is his or her mother, regardless if said mother is still breathing. People are afraid of hurting their mothers, outshining their mothers, revealing their real selves to their mothers. People can’t write because they feel they don’t fully exist since they are still so busy trying to please mothers who aren’t even alive any more.

Many things were strange today. My car drove down the 101 like it was riding waves. I pulled over and looked to see if there was a flat tire and then got back in the car and drove to Palo Alto, waiting for the engine to explode.

This is the first week of The Dream Posse and The Year of the Impossible Dreams. In order to be in fighting shape to sing with Run DMC and Aerosmith (after they say yes and after I learn to sing) I have to figure out how to 1. sleep soundly and 2. not poop my pants in public. Or anywhere.

I have decided I now live in The Year of Unreasonable Dreams. I want you to ask for more than you think you deserve, more than you think you can deliver, more than you think you can handle. I want you to scare yourself. I want you to let go of the safety bar and feel the full glory of the ride. Why? Because I want to do it myself, and I need help.