"Adventure outweighs common sense," I told myself as I stood in line at the Lhasa airport in Tibet as I smuggled Buddhist nuns’ letters and money to another nunnery in India. 

 

There are no clothes in my closet that have an EPA regulation compliance tag to be recycled or destroyed. My fridge has more green than white in it. But if push comes to shove, I’d probably eat anything.

 

It doesn’t matter what I’ve been or what I’ll be, I’m now old enough to wave off partisanship as if it were the last black fly in Wyoming. I want to accomplish things, and find myself singing Eye of the Tiger from Rocky III in the shower, and emailing politicians to annex Portland, Oregon to Austin, Texas. It’s not because I read voraciously and belong to groups of many colors, but because I can’t help but connect things.

 

I’m stable enough to have prioritized my 30 avocations and 10 vocations. I’ve made peace with what is is. I’m not New Age-ie, but I do know what a tachyon is and when Schroedinger's cat will die. Meditation is breath, and Qigong and yoga and I go way back.

 

I’ve surrendered to not knowing everything about everything, and I’m letting go as much as possible. But I’m the master of my world.

 

I’m a happily complicated Homo Luden with only one thing that actually annoys me: a painting hanging at an angle.