Ahhh… I just love this quote:
“ I must learn to love the fool in me–the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool. ”
– Theodore I. Rubin
It’s no secret, I’ve been beating myself up a lot lately. I’ve been questioning my tendency toward the impulsive. I have more than once regretted my willingness to pour my heart out without censorship. I speak without thinking. I trust my gut. I’m too energetic and speak too quickly. I maybe too-often put more effort into entertaining than into informing. And I have a tendency to be brutally honest whether you like it or not. Sometimes I drink too much and say what I mean… even if it’s not pretty.
And I feel things… everything… deeply as well. I have a huge capacity for love and compassion. I’m too sensitive to the pain and discomfort of others. I cry at everything from ASPCA commercials to episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker. And a pathetic look from my chihuahua melts my heart. Nothing in the world makes me happier than the content feeling of being near the people I love… to those whose intentions need no questioning.
But I refuse to be disingenuously kind. Dislike is something I feel strongly too. Dishonesty is something I can’t stomache. Betrayal provides me with such a capacity for hate that it surprises even me.
At the end of the day, though, I love my “fool.” I do. My fool is me. It’s what makes me know that I’m alive. And I think I’m done beating her up. And if you don’t love my fool, then you don’t love me either.