It doesn’t in­ter­est me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meet­ing your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t in­ter­est me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
look­ing like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the ad­ven­ture of be­ing alive.

It doesn’t in­ter­est me
what plan­ets are
squar­ing your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the cen­tre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have be­come shriv­elled and closed
from fear of fur­ther pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
with­out mov­ing to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ec­sta­sy fill you
to the tips of your fin­gers and toes
with­out cau­tion­ing us
to be careful
to be realistic
to re­mem­ber the limitations
of be­ing human.

It doesn’t in­ter­est me
if the sto­ry you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
dis­ap­point another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the ac­cu­sa­tion of betrayal
and not be­tray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and there­fore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the sil­ver of the full moon,

It doesn’t in­ter­est me
to know where you live
or how much mon­ey you have.
I want to know if you can get up
af­ter the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t in­ter­est me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the cen­tre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t in­ter­est me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sus­tains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you tru­ly like
the com­pa­ny you keep
in the emp­ty moments.

– The In­vi­ta­tion by Oriah