Watch the world like a scrupulous mother: with tenderness and awe, but always primed to scoop up any wayward morsel of truth. Be ready to feed it until it speaks its own name.
Scour your insides for every ugly thought, every cold judgment. Hold them out into the sun, let the light glint from their jagged edges. Wait until they shine just a little. Let them go.
Delight in the existence of those that let you love them. Find sea glass in their palms.
Get very angry at the state of the world. Scream as you drive alone down the freeway. Then count the freckles on your daughter’s face when you get home.
Remember that you have a body but you are not a body. Check on all the parts that ache. Drink more water. Fix your hair as you glance affectionately into the mirror. Then try to forget you have a reflection at all.
Stay out late and mix your liquors. Saunter into each and every bar downtown until you find the one that cheers as you sing songs you never hear on the radio anymore.
Wherever you are, be there. Stop thinking of the oaks while your feet sink into wet sand.
Call your mother. You’ll both feel better having done so.
Keep your eyes closed just a little longer after you wake. Try to recall just a word or two murmured by your soul as you slept.
Collect trinkets and stories to go with them. Make sure both are exceedingly weird.
Write it all down. Every unflattering angle. Every avoidable mistake. Nobody likes a priss.