Communion at the Labyrinth

My heart races with anticipation every time I drive to my favorite labyrinth. I keep the radio off. This time Ivy is with me. I have to scroll through my Instagram photos later to remember the last time I was at the labyrinth (turns out one year and fifteen days ago). I’ve been thinking about spending some time at the labyrinth, but it takes a few more weeks before I hit the road. 

I’ve remembered to bring a broom. The labyrinth is situated under two massive oak trees that shed their acorns like a game of darts. I prefer walking the circuit barefoot, so giving it a brushing over to clear the path makes for a smoother walk. Often I forget the broom, and so I have to watch my footsteps to avoid the sharp poke of acorns or their broken shells. The avoidance of obstacles on the path can make for a different kind of walk. Meaningful with a different sort of symbolism, but I prefer to remember the broom.

Walking a labyrinth’s intended purpose is a practice at being mindful, so I examine thoughts like they’re between slides under a microscope. With each first with Ivy, I wonder how she’ll react to the encounter. I clicked the leash to her collar and guided her down the path. I let go and watched what she’d do. Delighted that she declared a spot on the labyrinth and promptly sat taking in the new surroundings, I was transported back to church when my daughter was a baby and toddler.

Pandemic loneliness has nothing on those Sunday mornings. I was an exhausted working mom with a toddler who didn’t sleep through the night. When I couldn’t contain her boisterous baby noise, she and I sat in the nursery alone together. What is the point of this? I’d fume. I needed the community. A few quiet uninterrupted moments where I could think about my personhood and connection with the divine without that toddling sweetness balancing at my knee. I felt angry and invisible. On particularly hard mornings, I repacked her diaper bag, scooped up my baby, and silently labeled this Sunday a failure. I walked away from the communion I desperately needed in a burst of frustration. 

I hadn’t yet got the hang of sitting quietly in the discomfort. That would come later, like at that same girl’s softball games, when few players could hit the ball and the outfield were ill-prepared for the random ball that made it to them. My mindfulness practice expanded during those early games.

I also bring my love of weeding to the labyrinth. I don’t know how many people visit. I’ve never encountered anyone that didn’t come with me in my car, so each time I visit, it feels like my personal labyrinth. Since it is not, I feel a pull to do something to honor its availability to me whenever I want.

This morning the soil released the weeds with little struggle. I made my way around the circuit in no time. Ivy stayed put. I brushed the loose dirt from my hands, picked up the broom and started sweeping from the center toward the edges.

A new slide in the microscope came into focus. I thought of the various people I’ve brought to this very labyrinth. A writing friend. A first date after the divorce. My cousins and their boys. Each walk into the circle is different. I am drawn to the consistency of the place and the difference in mood, weather, and company to bring varied contemplations. I thought about other labyrinths I’ve visited and the people who accompanied me—some more willing than others.

At this time of morning, most of the labyrinth is covered in shade. Some bright spots are dappled by the sunshine that breaks through the tree’s canopies. A slight breeze blows across my bare arms and legs. I stop to inspect my progress and check on Ivy. I feel a building warmth as I find a rhythm to the brush strokes across what will soon be a sacred path. 

This morning on online church the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper will be offered in my faith tradition. When we’re not separated by pandemic distancing requirements, two ministers ‘prepare the emblems’ before communion is served. This phrase becomes my mantra as I continue sweeping the acorns and leaves off of the cement surface. I feel grateful for a free morning to spend as long as I feel compelled to dwell in this shady, pastoral spot yards from the speed and activity of the interstate. 

As I sweep, I hear cicadas performing an orchestral piece that weaves in and out of the low hum of the highway traffic. Prepare the emblems. Prepare the emblems. I hear myself repeat this phrase. An image of the communion table slides under the microscope. I see this labyrinth in a new light. My weeding and sweeping are a form of preparation. They stand as symbols pointing toward the sacred activity that I will soon engage in. Hmm. I haven’t been so thoughtful about that short ritual before communion is served before. I don’t know when I’ll be able to share in this sacrament in physical proximity with my church family, but I know that I’ll think of this moment preparing the labyrinth for my walk when I sit in the sanctuary again.

The broom comes close to Ivy’s front paws and swishes past her tail. I sweep around her until she moves out of the way. I finish sweeping, step out of my flip flops, take a deep breath and begin walking. What I notice on this trip to the center is how light I feel. Four and five years ago, I regularly felt a sense of anxiety as I followed the path, making the necessary turns toward the destination in the center. Walking labyrinths as a regular practice helps me chart my growth. 

I am lighter today because I take care of my emotional and spiritual health in more routine ways than I did before. I have grown comfortable with the present and what is occurring. Even when it is scary or uncomfortable. I have learned that worrying about a troubling situation does not improve it. In my most mindful moments, I no longer force my will on situations I cannot control. That has freed me up. Lightened the load.

For many years, this walk has been the closest I could come to meditation. Today I notice as I walk that I’m beginning to write this essay but with no angst about remembering what comes to mind or not having something to jot down notes. I understand that those thoughts will resurface when I come to the lap top and like clouds passing in seated meditation, I let essay structure and phrasing come and go. I arrive in the center and sit down. 

Ivy moves toward me. She lays on her back and presses her front paws into my torso and my arms. I document this trip to the center with some photos and then I settle into a quiet meditation. I pet Ivy. If I stop, she moves as if to say, Hey, Mom, don’t stop petting me. Her furry weight is a comfort against my thigh. 

I marvel at how grateful I am that she’s mine, and I have her companionship during the pandemic. I run my hand rhythmically across her coat like I had a few minutes earlier with the broom across the surface of the labyrinth. Moments pass. I feel the breeze again and find comfort in the chorus of cicadas. It dawns on me that I have sat quietly without an internal, running monologue for a space of time. I prop my chin on my bent knees in front of me, pet my dog, and enjoy the wordlessness for a little longer.

I sit up straight and realize I have a walk back out of the labyrinth. It’s funny to me that I temporarily forgot this. I take it as a good sign that I was really present for those few moments. I breathe deeply, walk around Ivy, and make my way out. I remain mostly wordless, and definitely in no way anxious. I retrace my way feeling the cool cement beneath my feet and thinking of only the steps a few feet ahead of me. 

When I see the opening of the labyrinth, which signals the walk is over, I feel a twinge of disappointment. It’s a good feeling for something nourishing to end and to be left wanting more.

Dispatch from home - thoughts about staying put and retirement

When my dad became critically ill six months before his retirement, my ideas about my own twilight years abruptly shifted. I was glad my parents had done a lot of the international travel they had wanted before he got sick. But what if they’d stored up their wish list for after he retired? What if he’d succumbed to Guillain-Barre syndrome? Those few treacherous days of his weeks-long hospitalization convinced me to live life differently.

A year after my dad recovered, I flew to London with my daughter to visit my college roommate and her family. Since then a divorce and smaller budget has grounded me, but I’ve continued to take a “not-put-off-things” approach to life. No season lasts forever. I know my budget will allow travel again one of these days, and while I’m sticking close to home, I’ve crossed off yoga teacher training from the list and am transforming my backyard landscaping little by little.

I’ve been working from various flat surfaces in my home for the past several months as we all weather this challenging period. I am tremendously blessed to still have a job and be able to do it from the safety and comfort of my home. I am content to stay home with limited trips to the grocery, garden center, and drive-thru for ice cream.

As an introvert, I generally keep myself occupied with a stack of books,letters written to people who come to mind daily, and time spent in my yard. Most days I am content, but I must admit, every few weeks I feel a bout of boredom and restlessness strike.

Mid-pandemic, thoughts of retirement return. I read somewhere that anxiety stems from thinking about the future. Thinking about how the pandemic in the U.S. will play out and what my retirement years will look like are excellent examples of anxiety-inducing topics. Are these bouts of boredom and restlessness what retirement feels like? If so, this reconfirms my earlier thoughts about retirement: I can’t do it. I’m going to have to keep working. I don’t actually thrive with so much time on my hands. My novel remains unfinished. The tack strips that need to be ripped out of my basement floor still have to be tackled. I can’t use my pre-coronavirus excuse. I’ve had PLENTY of time.

I’m participating in a wellness challenge hosted by my employer’s human resources department. Each workday for a month, we get points for doing two of five wellness activities that are backed by science for improving outlook and well-being. Through this program, I am experiencing the benefits of daily meditation. This mindfulness practice soothes anxious thoughts by helping me observe rather than react to them. Writing this essay has been a form of meditation. As I work to type words on the screen and keep my train of thought on the tracks, I notice that I feel occupied, content, and unbothered by the passage of time. I am enjoying the music I’ve chosen to accompany me while I write and to hear the rain fall outside my window.

I watch how writing helps me move from anxious thoughts about the future to bringing me to the present where I am safe and well and blissfully occupied. I have walked away from this essay multiple times. On my walk to the laundry room, I heard more words form. I’m reminded by previous periods of uncertainty—like being 40 and divorced—that I’m up to the challenge of carving out a new chapter for myself. If I could do it then, and am coping through the isolation of pandemic living, I’ll be able to make something beautiful of my retirement when it comes.

As for my unfinished projects? They’ll get done when they get done—exactly on time.

Back when a Saturday lasted forever and retirement was a lifetime away.

New growth in the garden

I spent much of the weekend binge watching Mad Men before it’s removed from Netflix. As protests and unrest erupt across the country, the story line of this period drama landed me in the burgeoning tensions of the mid-sixties. One episode focused on the characters’ reactions to the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. It was striking to listen to the dialogue as the white and black characters navigated that national tragedy 50-some years ago. It is shameful how little has changed in the intervening years. So much of what is written on social media today is an echo of those struggles decades ago.

I paused the show and spent some time on social media where I felt the heaviness of retweets, videos of violent police and community interactions, and the heartbreak of black communities near and far. I noted the white friends who declared their allyship, and considered the monumental work all of us have ahead of us to make America’s racial disparities a thing of the past.  

I laced up my work boots, grabbed my garden gloves, and climbed the treacherous slope of my rocky property to get a break from too much screen time. I surveyed the Russian sage I planted last year. I was attracted to its free-spirited shape, the muted purple of a Monet painting, and its perennial attribute to spread.  

Tonight’s goal was to weed the area around my sage bushes to prevent the weeds from choking out new growth. As I tore out the wild onion and ragweed that encroached on the sage’s territory, I thought about how these plants and weeds are like the situation we’re in right now.

The sage bushes represent the best in us—our kindness, humor, compassion. The weeds are the fears, prejudices, biases, and untruths our culture has handed to us about white, brown, and black skin. 

As I plucked the weeds from the loose soil, I prayed. For the mamas of my daughters’ friends. For my elementary friend who grew up to be a police officer. For myself as I to learn how to be an effective ally for my black and brown friends. For my daughter and her friends. For how they are not color blind, but see each other’s different skin colors and hair textures and celebrate those differences.

I want to weed out the old, toxic thoughts and beliefs that were sown in me by society. As I pulled the weeds in my garden, I was reminded of the effort this requires. I thought about how it doesn't happen overnight-literally or figuratively. Just like in my yard, it is important that I don't get overwhelmed by the size of the task. What is important is that I keep showing up in little ways every day. Pull a few weeds, text a friend, read a book and talk to other white friends about what I'm learning. Over the course of a season, those individual efforts will grow into something fertile, lush, and beautiful. But only if I'm willing to do the work. In other words, my garden and I are works in progress. 

Dispatch from Home

The early days of pandemic isolation have felt familiar. It took about a week to articulate it: these days at home feel very much like the early days after my divorce. Five years ago, I was disoriented by all the extra time I had on my hands without my daughter. She had been by my side for her entire eight years, and I really didn't know what to do with myself. I stayed in because I didn't have the money to go out, and I didn't want to admit how lonely and scared I was. I ached with sadness, fatigue, and fear of the unknown. In today's isolation, though I am concerned about my family's health and how the devastated economy will affect my work, I feel lighter and freer. There is some comfort knowing I am not alone in these worries or spending all of this time at home.

Long before I self-identified as a gardener, I was cultivating the soil of my heart and mind. I worked hard to make fertile the ground in which a new life could take root. I am grateful today for that toil and sweat. I am in a much better place to take on the challenges of this hour. I have practice under my belt in navigating the unknown. I spent yesterday in bed reading soothing my worried self about what would happen if I lost my job. I gave myself the day to sit with those scary thoughts and began imagining that scenario and made some plans.

Today I woke up feeling stronger, made a list of things I would like to accomplish—this blog post being one of them—and can say when I hit publish, I will have crossed off every single one of the items plus also mowing my lawn, which was not on the list. (Thank you sunshine!)

The following list are things I have done to fill my time or found especially joyful as I stay at home to do my part in flattening the curve of this damn virus.

Tulips, Daffodils, and Hydrangeas

One afternoon last autumn, I planted 60 bulbs. I had underestimated how hard the work would be particularly trying to plant the bulbs in the rocky soil up my hill and around the base of a tree whose root system was an invisible tangle below the surface. Under my breath, I had a few choice words and muttered that these bulbs “had better take root next spring!” While in isolation, those beauties did indeed appear, and they have been a comfort. We have had a lot of wind, and those blossoms remind me how life is both fragile and sturdy. Some blossoms lost the fight and ended up in a vase in my living room while others have toughed it out bending with the gales.

I also planted two hydrangeas around my patio last summer. They didn't fare well, and I assumed that they wouldn't come back this spring. I was wrong! Both plants have new growth, and I am so excited to watch how they develop into stronger, beautiful plants this year. This gardening life is a constant teacher showing me how to live a deeper, richer life.

Nailbiting

If you told me that during a pandemic, I would STOP BITING MY NAILS, I would not have believed you. It isn't logical. This is the scariest, most surreal time I have ever experienced, and yet I do not feel compelled to chew nervously on my nails. I am sure that being conscious of the importance of keeping my hands away from my face and the constant hand washing is helping, but it's still a silver lining in this nightmare scenario.

New Pet

I adopted a one-year-old blue tick coon hound two months ago. I had been talking myself out of canine companionship since after my divorce, and then one week in February, the prospect of having a dog seemed like the right next step. I fell in love with my dog from a photo on the rescue's Instagram feed. We met her, she put her paws in my daughter's lap within moments of meeting each other, and I was convinced we needed each other. We named her Ivy Valentine. My daughter is so happy to have a dog, and still can't believe it happened “at Mom's house!” Ivy has completed the Mahoney Girls Household. The timing of her adoption feels divine. Her company is a comfort in these days of isolation.

Shopping Local and Doing Good

When I buy books (which I don't do often because, libraries) and soap, I have committed to shopping local. These two stores are next door to each other, and they are female owned. I want these businesses to weather the pandemic, so I am doing my part.

There has been such an emphasis on volunteerism during this shelter-at-home time, and I just haven't had it in me to step out my door. My introversion has kicked into high gear, and I just want to stay inside. It was wearing on me that I wasn't doing my part. In time, I placed my first online stamp order (such a great assortment!), and began writing letters to friends who come to mind. This practice reminded me that this is my contribution. Writing letters is what I DO. I tune into the comments of friends online and note when it sounds like someone could use a pick-me-up. I also pay attention to the names who come to mind, and use that nudge as a sign that that's the next person to write. Since I've been writing letters regularly, my anxiety about not doing enough has diminished.(And I'm also doing my part in supporting the USPS.)

The self-care measures I have implemented in the past five years are serving me well now. I am grateful that I am familiar with signs that I am in need of extra nurture and know how to offer that to myself. This self-knowledge is an immeasurable gift in the days of coronavirus.

An Anniversary - The 40/40 List FIVE Years Later

Vintage birth announcement

Today I turn 45. I am middle-aged. It's ridiculous to consider. It's also such a gift, a privilege to be able to add more years to this life.

I finally arrived! TWO weeks after my due date.

As the weeks and days have ticked by to this day, I've thought a lot about who I am now, and about all of the versions of me that have brought me to this point. I'm still slim, but not thin-skinned. I feel my introverted tendencies more acutely as I raise a strong-willed extrovert. I still love reading, and keep finding ways to read faster to consume more information. I am even more interested in telling stories, so I study how to do it. I am curious, but have a lack of it when it comes to what people think of me. I trust myself, and really like the woman I have become. I feel good in my skin and love the decision to whack off my hair three years ago. I love my own company and crave it more and more. I'm not afraid of being alone, and the abject loneliness of a few years ago has dissipated. I am grateful that I set out to date myself in the early months after my divorce and came to know myself and like myself in new ways for the first time in my life.

Of the things that are most different about me, it is my ability to metabolize fear. I lived nearly 40 years paralyzed by it. I stayed firmly within the confines of what kept me safe and sound—or at least what I perceived as such.

My Grandpa taught me to step over the wires that electrified the rides at the State Fair. I watched other people step on them and nothing happened to them. Protecting us from danger—perceived and real threats alike—was his love language. So I followed his advice and stuck to what seemed safe. I was the child who also didn't like Dr. Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham because if ham was green, something was WRONG with it, and we SHOULD NOT BE EATING IT. You see where I'm going with this? I took reasonable precautions to their outer limits. I went overboard on being safe and I didn't risk anything—not adventure or healthy risk. I stayed at jobs too long. I didn't travel to places I wanted to see. I stayed in relationships past their expiration dates. My sense of safety became inverted.

And then I felt things shift. I was getting divorced and turning 40 and the way I'd always done things didn't seem to be working anymore. I took the advice of a twenty-something and made a list of things to do in celebration of my birthday. It turns out that list changed my life.

I tackled the list like a military operation, or so one friend observed. I put things on that list that scared me. I also used the list to inspire, stretch, and teach me. All of that happened. That list was like throwing a rock into the lake of my life and watching the ripples widen. I am still feeling the effects of disturbing the waters of my life.

Malcolm Gladwell explained in his book David and Goliath – Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of Battling Giants that during the Blitz in World War II, Londoners didn't behave as the government expected them to. After the war, a Canadian psychiatrist named J. T. MacCurdy studied reactions to the unrelenting bombings and described his findings in a book titled The Structures of Morale. MacCurdy wrote:

“We are all of us not merely liable to fear, we are also prone to be afraid of being afraid, and the conquering of fear produces exhilaration....When we have been afraid that we may panic in an air-raid, and, when it has happened, we have exhibited to others nothing but a calm exterior and we are now safe, the contrast between the previous apprehension and the present relief and feeling of security promotes a self-confidence that is the very father and mother of courage.”

As I think of my life at 45, MacCurdy's words resonate. I haven't been through the Blitz, but I have navigated emotional disturbances that felt explosive. In the years before my divorce and my 40^th birthday, I was paralyzed by my fear of being fearful. Working my way through my 40/40 knocked all of that loose. I didn't become fearless. I was afraid and proceeded forward with my fears in tow. And then I looked around and noted that I was still standing. That I had survived whatever dangerous, scary thing I had imagined was coming after me. The more I tested the waters of my own courage, the braver and sturdier I became.  

I flung myself off the platform swinging on the trapeze. I pushed my skinny frame toward the finish line of my first race. I challenged old stories I came to believe as truth. I baked fancy desserts, and didn't set the kitchen aflame. The list was my life. I was burning away the old stuff that no longer served me and cleared the path to head out on new adventures.


I have become familiar with the exhilaration too, and it feels GOOD.

As I celebrate the ups and downs of this precious life, I am living proof that “the present relief and feeling of security promotes a self-confidence that is the very father and mother of courage.”

Five years. There was a time when I was so frightened not knowing what would come next. Now I welcome the unknown and know I am up for every challenge that life throws my way.

Here's to the next five and five and on and on!

Looking back and welcoming what's to come

Happy New Year! It feels good to open a fresh document empty except for the curiosity of what will fill its pages in the coming 365 days. I didn't fully embody my word of the year, enchantment, quite as I might have hoped. My bent toward practicality kept enchantment at bay more than I had hoped and yet I have no regrets about the aspiration to be enchanted. It nudged me closer to this year's word: savor. I look forward to the ways that I can embody this new word.

A friend reminded me that “We are not always 100 per cent.” It was his way of comforting me as I lamented the inability to “get over” something that keeps tripping me up. His phrase has been a mantra this year and a source of self-soothing.

My home began transforming into the space I have always dreamt of it being: a safe place for friends and strangers who need it. It didn't require new furniture or a fresh coat of paint to achieve that status. Only an open heart and the willingness to say yes when the needs arose. Four months later, a friendship is forged that I am excited to nurture and cultivate for months and years to come. It also hosts bi-monthly Girl Scout meetings, and it has recharged my emotional reserves to hear the chatter of twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls who delight in each other's company and work toward their goals together.

The middle school years are proving to be difficult for pre-teen and mother alike. I've been heartbroken at times feeling inadequate in my role as her shepherd through this rough terrain. But since I've begun to see every aspect of life as a practice rather than an expectation of getting things right all the time, I've found space to learn from my missteps, room to breathe, practice patience, and try again.

I continue to feel a sense of wholeness and health that is new—not only post-divorce, but new in all my nearly 45 years. I am confronted by things that have caused me difficulty or consternation, and I am actually grateful when those moments arise because I demonstrate how differently and competently I handle them now. I see how healing from past hurts and feelings of being misunderstood allow me to respond from such a different place than before. I have watched myself initiate difficult conversations that previously seemed impossible. I would freeze and stay in a place of resentment and indignation. Now, I take a breath when the opportunity presents itself, and speak what is true for me with kindness and self-respect. I have seen relationships transform and my life feels lighter and happier.

There is a difference between responding and reacting, and in the new year and new decade before me, I am committed to responding. I have turned so many corners for the better that I see that I am back where I started, but at a new elevation with the benefit of life experience, hindsight, and the love and support of many who have loved me to this new place.

I am loosening my grip on my stubborn approach to paying off credit card debt. Being white-knuckled about anything is an exhausting, counterproductive strategy. We are going to travel more, pay attention to opportunities to say yes when life opens new doors, and respect the moments when saying no is a sacred choice.

I fine-tuned my ability to conserve and expend energy like a banker spends and saves money. I understand how time is currency, and I want to spend it well. I have recognized how my work life has become deeply stressful, and with awareness, I discovered that rest and sabbaths of many kinds were the best way to combat it. By the end of the year, I was able to grant myself these respites with very little guilt. I endeavor to do more of the same in the new year and even go so far as to find ways to eliminate the crushing stress altogether.

Time in my garden reinforced how it—and I—are works in progress, and I am thrilled by the ways I am blossoming along with my crops of zinnias and sunflowers. This season, I tried planting seeds in different places in my yard and was initially underwhelmed. Only two stalks of sunflowers grew and my zinnias sprouted but initially stopped before any blooms came. I learned the importance of knowing how much sun an area gets and was satisfied that no zinnias this year were a small price to pay for understanding that they required much more sun for future crops. I put too many sunflower seeds in the same hole in the ground—another mistake I made that taught me to see this garden as a source of adventure. I feel lucky I got the two stalks I got. But then a month later than expected and a few weeks after I'd considered pulling the zinnia-less plants, nearly two dozen zinnias blossomed after all, which taught me a bigger lesson: that all living things grow in their own time and to not rush the process. I've always considered myself a late-bloomer, but I'm now considering the possibility that I am actually blooming exactly on time—for me.

Welcome 2020! I am excited by what adventures and blossoms await me in this New Year.

Writing Prompt: I am thinking...

Here's another Natalie Goldberg writing prompt. These prompts aren't really intended to be shared, per se, so I'm letting it be what it is with little editing or explanation. The direction of this prompt was to fill in the blank and when ideas slowed, to simply write the words I am thinking again and again. The point is to keep putting words and sentences on the page or screen, and on this day in July, I accomplished that. I'm also remaining accountable to myself by posting weekly to this blog. Without further ado.

I'm thinking of how nice it is that I shared a favorite band's concert with my daughter. I'm thinking of how sometimes she talks too much, and I have to remember she's a little girl, and I need to be a net to catch all her words.

I'm thinking about for as much as I want to be touched, it's by an adult I want to be touched. She put her sweet little hand on my back as the band played and I wanted to move away. I am thinking that it was such a nurturing gesture, and I worry about what it does to her to nurture her mother. What I've witnessed of the nurturing of mothers by daughters hasn't always been for the best.

Perhaps my daughter's nurture stems from my own, and that I should be grateful for rather than resistant to, but still what I really want is a man's hand on my lower back feeling his body close as I sway to the music.

I am thinking about how I'd never heard the cello part of their band sound so strong and complement the other parts of the music as well as last night. I am thinking of how Scott seemed of sound mind and when he's in the zone how good the music is. I am thinking of Seth and his tenderness. The tenderness that gets expressed to the fans, but also flows through lyrics and sentiments. Maybe he brings the softness and his brother brings the grit.

I am thinking of the songs I love on albums that I've never seen live. I am thinking about the mirror ball and what sparkle it added to my favorite song, Laundry Room.

I am thinking a lot about how different I feel these days than I did four years ago. It didn't feel like it at the time, but in retrospect I can see how fragile I was. I was stronger then than I'd been in a long while, which only goes to show how much of a whispery shell I had become. Today I am made of steel. I am sturdy and unwavering. I know my mind and I follow my gut. When I am uncertain, I stay still until the certain answer or next right move surfaces. Only then do I act.

This feels like a superpower, this sturdiness. I am so much better able to protect my heart. Protecting my heart and moving in my own self-interest comes naturally now. I feel less needy. I don't feel dependent on others to validate or hold me up. A dear couple's leaving town when they did required me to rely on myself and trust that I didn't need other adults to prop me up. I wouldn't have known that until their absence required it of me. Feeling distant from another friend doesn't feel personal like it might have years ago. She's in a different season of life. I feel like my independence from her is a way to honor her. Like, Look at me, you helped me get to this point! I don't need to rely on you as I once did. I can hear your voice in my head when I need it, and the marvelous thing is that I don't need that kind of support so keenly any more, and when I do, I know how to give it to myself. That is a gift she gave me.

I am thinking of how with time I am able to rebuild a friendship that stands alone, that does not require someone else's interference. It is my sturdiness that makes this possible, and also maturity and has added layers to my thin-skinned nature. I take so few things personally today. I still feel my feelings, but I know they are fleeting and that the other stuff isn't about me, and does not need to be metabolized as such.

I am thinking of how great it is to grow older and wiser. What a privilege that is.