We walked the trails through the marsh, doing what we’d always done, sharing victories, frustrations, amusements and outrages. I had the honor and pleasure of meeting her daughter. A perfect, beautiful, healthy six month old baby. The entire afternoon was quiet, gentle, wise and sweet- so much so that it I didn’t realize how incredibly overwhelming it was until I left.

To have her friendship and love in my grasp again, to get some advice, some bras that fit, maternity clothes for the summer, a few other invaluable items. Holding that sweet child in my arms, leaning down to smell her head and realizing that this is why I can’t brush my tongue anymore, that this is my reward for the crying jags, the mouth-watering queasiness, the exhaustion that leaves me limp and sour like a wet dishrag. My gratitude washed over me like a warm tide; tears of joy and relief rolled under my chin and down my neck, and I left them there because the breeze through the car windows on wet skin made the heat a little easier.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about the people I love the most, the inner circle of family and friends that are so caring and giving, steadfast as hardy perennials. I thought about how my knot slipped loose with this one, how careless and foolish I’d been, and for what? I’m not entirely sure anymore, but it seemed fairly clear at the time, and here we are, and she’s breathing much-needed light into my life. I hope she got some in return.

My thoughts occasionally drift to other loose knots, some completely undone, like slipped stitches in a blanket. The loss of love pains me, even and perhaps especially when it becomes necessary for my own well-being. But that’s the thing about becoming a mother- it starts with not eating things that don’t smell good to you that moment and evolves into realizing that you’re responsible for teaching a real person how to live and love by example.

I leave for Vegas on Thursday, and I was concerned about feeling well, doing well, and fitting in. Then I remembered who they are, and how much I love this, and how badly I want this baby to understand the capacity for light in the world. So I stopped worrying and started shopping.

I’ve been steadily feeling better since we took that walk in the park. Hearing the faint echo of a heartbeat, and then a loud, clear, strong heartbeat didn’t take my breath away, as I thought it would. It restored my breath and my strength, like a freight train rushing towards me, my feet humming with the pitch of the tracks.

The quality and quantity of people who have, in their own way, walked in the park with me is a wellspring of joy and comfort. I’ve been atrocious about keeping in touch, and even more elusive to see in public, but they march on, inquiring, advising, inviting, and lo, I am blessed.

Pregnancy isn’t a walk in the park, but love ought to be.

One would think my skill in recognizing the rabbit hole of angst and shame would be razor-sharp by now, but I still didn’t make the connection between my sudden and surprising loss of compassion and the battle flag running up the pole. A talented female friend posted a link in a closed network, asking for support from the members for one her projects. The first sentence of her message was an apology. It was no less than the fifth self-promotion apology I’ve seen from a female friend in the last seven days.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, really?! Why do we apologize for requesting support and attention in our professional/creative/athletic endeavors?

I should be posting my links and asking for referrals, but I don’t, because I don’t want to look like a stuck-up bitch, but I also refuse to apologize, and fuck if I know how to construct a marketing message that strikes that delicate balance.

Somehow I still managed to be surprised when I woke up this morning and served myself a steaming mug of doubt, failure, and shame. Purchasing new batteries for my mouse without outside financing is a major, orchestrated event right now, and my financial worth is facing a sharp decrease before I can even fathom another upswing in income.

Much of that is no one’s fault. The economy is improving at an excruciatingly slow pace. Start-ups, solopreneurs, service providers and small businesses- my market- are struggling to pay their own rent. They don’t have a need for the recurring accounting work that I anticipated would sustain me while I developed my client base; there’s no money to count, much less to pay for the counting.

Much of it is my own fault. I’m an accountant, I’m a writer, I’m a business owner. Things I am not: extroverted, a salesperson, a marketer, a business development manager. The learning curve, the dues-paying, the crippling lack of familiarity or comfort- it paralyzes me. I know who I am, and I know I’m skilled and talented in both of my fields, but you probably don’t, and that’s my fault.

It’s your fault, too.

When I declared my freedom from the whims of old, fat, balding white men that can no longer tell you what a gallon of milk costs or remember the sickening nausea of floating a check before payday, you cheered me on, and I was grateful and emboldened.

Where are you now?

I live in an entrepreneurial community, which as far as I can tell, means that financially secure baby boomers and aimless trustafarians spout platitudes and retweet each other endlessly. There are no referrals, there is no real encouragement or collaboration, there are cliques and cliches and pet projects. My local encouragement and support, ironically, comes from those who’ve relegated themselves to salaries and cubicials, not from the business leaders of Asheville. Most of those leaders aren’t interested in mentoring me because there’s no immediate payoff for them, like the real estate mogel who informed me that he does business with people who use his services first. He owns several properties and a business services firm. I own an iPad and a ten-key.

If you’ve ever inquired, “why don’t you have a publisher? why don’t you get paid to write?”, the answer is simple. You haven’t liked this page on Facebook, you don’t retweet my posts, you don’t comment here and share these words with your networks. A few of you fall over yourselves praising my talent, but can’t be bothered to answer questions via email to help me understand what’s marketable about my writing. Oh, except for the guy who answered immediately to shame me for not wanting to sell a book about my failed marriage or stormy childhood. Maybe some of you prefer me small and cold, I guess.

Perhaps you know me on a deeper, more intimate level, and you’ve helped to the point of resentment. Maybe you know that your approval matters to me, and you’ve wielded that sacred trust to talk to me about looking for work, or getting a job, or you’ve referred to my very real corporation as a hobby, or little project. Bonus points if you’ve availed yourself of my extra time when business is slow. Since you’re available….

Those are solidly half of the reasons why women apologize for self-promoting, and why I’ve cried all damn day.

I’m working on the other half.

Daddy took me to the park Sunday afternoon for a walk along the bay. Every step I mindfully delay to match his pace is a tiny death. His excitement in discovering that most of the ice fishing takes place within reasonable walking distance from the parking lot amounts to so many tears shed later, in the dark, on top of the sea created from his concern that he might not be strong enough to pull himself from the water if the ice gave way beneath him.

The night his mother died, I held my father while he cried. Just he and I, sitting in the dark, the smell of liquor heavy in the air. He looked at me with indescribable anguish, whispered “I’m an orphan again” and crumpled into a quiet and dignified weeping.

At sixteen, I had the sense to be heartbroken for him and honored that he allowed himself a moment of unfettered grief in my presence. I did not have the sense to be absolutely petrified at the hard reality: this man that still seemed part machine would age, himself.

That fear would be borne some fifteen years later, when my Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, when my Uncle and I clung to each other and wept for his mother, when young and tragic death forced itself upon my family like a stain.

Those experiences created a manic rage, a choking desire, words creeping up in my throat, begging for air, for all the volume I can muster- warnings from the rooftops about the fleeting nature of life, about the enduring power of love, about what is important and what is not, and why oh why do we waste so much time on meaningless things when it all goes by so quickly?!

This is precisely why my father no longer grows a winter beard; his whiskers are nearly all white now, and I pleaded with him not to make me stare down his mortality. He lost another of his best friends on Christmas Eve, and I finally acquiesced this weekend, because I can no longer pretend that I won’t walk the Earth without him someday.

I thought long and hard today about why that’s so goddamned scary. I grew up with the constant reminder that he was preparing me to survive without him. I love my mother dearly; I cherish my time with her and worry for her health, I can sense the heaviness of losing her, but there is no cold, hard fear, no tearful three in the mornings, no nightmares, no soul-quaking hollowness.

What am I so afraid of? What am I losing that I cannot live without?

Like most good answers, especially at three in the morning, it’s sickeningly, stunningly clear.

My father sees, understands and appreciates me on a level no one else does because I let him. I make myself vulnerable, I throw open the doors of my heart and let him in to tinker around and sweep up, to rearrange things on the shelves and leave me a list of things to watch for.

It isn’t because he’s never let me down, or hurt me deeply, or temporarily turned me away. Even when our trust was thin and brittle, even when time and maturity called me to set my own boundaries, I kept faith in his love. It hasn’t always been easy, and it hasn’t always seemed wise, but it has always, always been worth it.

I’m petrified that my ability to love with such reckless abandon will die with him.

Now I just need to figure out what to do about that.

Certainly, my mother ensured that the Christmas tree burst forth with mountains of gifts on Christmas morning, all painstakingly wrapped in pretty paper and mile upon mile of pigtailed ribbon. My childhood Christmases were nothing short of magical, even after I recognized her familiar script on Santa’s gift tags.

The weeks leading up to Christmas morning, however, were entirely about love, kindness and charity. We baked endless cookies, to be delivered to neighbors and damn near every staff member at school by yours truly, a personal thank you from Mama to any soul that ever looked out for her kids.

We bought the softest, warmest gloves and hats for my elementary school’s “mitten tree”, and she made sure that I understood the heartbreaking connection between its purpose and my classmates who were carefully sent to the library for recess: their parents couldn’t even afford proper clothing for the Michigan winters. I hoped that my contribution to that tree would have them sledding and slinging snowballs with the rest of us in the new year.

It wasn’t until high school, when I got involved with Junior Civitan that I really understood the desperation and sorrow behind the mitten tree, the canned food drives, and the wish lists from social services. I met an angry single mother that hissed insults at us as we unloaded a full Thanksgiving dinner onto her kitchen counters, and an elderly couple living in a tin shack with dirt-packed floors. It frightened and saddened me indeliably to truly understand the depth and breadth of my blessings.

A few short years later, I was finishing some last-minute shopping on Christmas Eve when the oil light lit up my dashboard. Panicked, I pulled into an oil change place and prayed that someone would at least be around to sell me a few quarts of oil for my old, dying car. There was a guy in the garage, he’d come by to pick something up he’d forgotten the night before. He filled my engine and put a case of oil in my trunk, with strict instructions to add a quart every time I put gas in it, and refused to take even the money for the two or so quarts I could afford.

Just a few years ago, a coworker was distraught over a mistake in her checkbook register that meant she couldn’t afford the big gift she planned on for her son. B and I hardly even had to exchange looks; we both put a few twenties in an envelope and slipped it into her inbox, unnoticed. We were eventually discovered, unwittingly, and I found myself staring into a pair of big brown eyes full of guilt, shame and disbelief. She wanted to know why we were compelled to fix her “stupid” mistake, and she wanted to “make it right” when she could.

“Because we’ve all made that mistake in our checkbooks. Because your kid deserves that wide-eyed gasp I always had. Because I have it to spare. Because that’s how my Mama raised me. Because it made my heart light and happy. Because I love you. Because this is what Christmas is really about, and don’t you dare give a penny of it back.”

We wept in each other’s arms.

She offered it to me later, driven by the hopelessness behind my eyes, and probably the knowledge that B was helping me sneak the space heater out of the lobby at night and out of the trunk of my car in the morning. I still refused, because forty dollars wasn’t even close to solving my problems and because I’m so damn prideful sometimes.

This year, I haven’t had an opportunity to perform a significant act of kindness, so I’ve decided to settle for sending tidings of comfort and joy to people that have made my life so much sweeter. I’d like to start with you, whoever you are. If you’re reading these words, you’ve encouraged me to keep writing, and in so doing, you’ve compelled me to live and love better. Your silent witness casts a soft, moon-lit glow on the path that leads me home. Thank you.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

The shadows call with their siren song, offering refuge from those impervious souls shocked, frustrated and saddened by smudges they cannot scrub clean. The pressure so ironically generated by holidays designed to inoculate against the void is thick and heavy with guilt and shame. Isolation’s seductive protection draws us further into the clear, sharp stillness until tears freeze on cheeks and aching gasps cut voice from vapor.

Frostbite settles in, and anything but a slow, gentle thawing scalds. Even that means relinquishing the safety in numbness, the relief hiding beneath pale pink skin. Warming by the fire seems a foolish pleasure; a painful reminder of the cold in fleeting contrast. Besides, someone might notice a shiver in the glow of those embers.

That’s the nature of darkness. Drawing poor, good hearts into an emptiness that folds over onto itself eternally. The blackest of psychic black holes, trapping everything in a nothingness that is only strengthened by resistance.

So I won’t try to coax you towards the light. I won’t insist that you find contentment, pleasure and gratitude in the stunning clarity of the winter sky, or whatever shelters you from the fierce northwestern wind that slices bone deep. You won’t find me standing over your dark places with a wire brush and a stiff jaw.

Still, perhaps you’d like someone to sit with you, in a chilly and dimly-lit room, with a mug of something to take the edge off. Someone who can see the flowers and fruit of spring waiting beneath your frozen soil, someone to clasp your icy hand in hers without wincing. If you need someone who can brave the darkness with you, or just breathe a contented sigh when you grasp a little tighter or worry her palm with your thumb?

I’m right here.

Sure, she had a smart mouth, broke the occasional rule, and was prone to emotional outbursts and displays of temper. She sometimes suffered an inability to accept a perceived injustice, and working so hard at being a good girl gave her a sense of entitlement. She had her resentment squirreled away in a savings account, to be retained as righteous indignation when she had her heart set on something that never materialized. Cath could be quite a handful in those moments, and her Mama likened her to a girl from a nursery rhyme:

There once was a girl with a curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.

Cath’s parents were trying to teach her that life isn’t fair. They wanted her to learn to accept defeat gracefully, and to treat others well. She had to learn that one does the right thing for their own satisfaction, and not to gain favor or reward.

Somewhere, most likely at the intersection of life isn’t fair and you reap what you sow in the world, she misinterpreted the meaning behind the message.

Being a good girl means meeting others’ expectations, but you have no right to your own expectations. If you get what you want, it’s because you’re a good girl, and if you don’t get what you want, too bad- good girls are grateful for what they have.

Aren’t you grateful for everything we’ve given you?

For the next thirteen years of my life, I was a bad girl. Cat started drinking, sneaking cigarettes, doing drugs, going out with older guys, skipping school, speeding and generally doing whatever she wanted, fuck allwhat you thought of it. Her Daddy cured her of that her sixteenth year- he taught her that appearing to be a good girl was what counted, and that she could be as bad as she wanted if she didn’t get caught. He showed her that following the little rules made it easier to break the big ones.

Cat picked that up quickly, and she excelled at acting like a good girl and being a bad girl when no one was looking. She met a man who prided himself on that very same thing, and they fell in love. They were very happy most of the time; save his occasional failure to meet her expectations.

When she threw a fit, he gently explained to her that she wanted too much from him, more than anyone deserved, probably because her Daddy hit her and her Mama was closer to her sister. It was okay, though, because he loved her even though she was bad for being angry when he was cold or disrespectful.

Would I be here if I didn’t really love you? You’re just crazy. The way you depend on me is bad; I can’t be your everything. You need a life of your own.

She knew he was right, she was always bad that way, wanting more than she deserved, not merely gracefully accepting what she was given in exchange for being a good girl. He was right, she was bad, and she was so very grateful that he loved her anyway. So what if he was bad sometimes too, if he made her feel bad, it was her fault, for not just loving him anyway, for putting up with her. She loved him too well to expect the same in return.

Ever so slowly, she built a life of her own. Cat snagged an incredible professional opportunity, she made friends, she even started college. They bought a cute little house in the middle of nowhere, and she started to believe that her life might turn out better than she ever dreamed.

Once again, she had a great deal of responsibility for her age. At twenty-six, she was a wife, a homeowner, the Controller of a multi-million dollar company, and a student. All of these roles required suppressing that bad little girl. She was constantly belittled and criticized for her passion, intensity, honesty, and the clumsy new way she stood up for herself.

That’s when I became a verybadcat. The blog was first; verybadcat needed a place safe from criticism to start writing again, to tell the stories no one wanted told, a container for her badness. All those pieces and parts of her that were not honored and accepted off the page. Her deepest fears, darkest secrets, secret dreams and wishes. She was astounded to find that she developed a following, that people who didn’t know the good girl loved verybadcat. Twitter allowed her to communicate with those folks in real time.

Her life was finally full and fruitful, she gained confidence, which was just what the wasbund always said he wanted. Unfortunately, what seemed ideal in theory lost luster in practice; the career, the social life, the night classes and homework, and all of that fucking around on the Internet took time and attention away from him. She wasn’t content to sit on the shelf till he was inclined to take her down and dust her off. At that same time, his full and fruitful life began the agonizing process of unraveling.

The addition of financial stress and marital discord to her already demanding life left her with no room to move. Anything she wanted for herself: time, energy, recognition, space, respect, and especially love or money, she had to steal from the life she built. The guilt of resenting all of the pressure was crushing. Everything was a secret.

Her precarious financial position was a secret from her employer, because admitting that you are cold and hungry at night isn’t a good idea when you hold a key financial position in an organization. Her professional success threatened and intimidated her chronically unemployed husband. Her friends almost knew how bad things were, but she alternated venting between wholly separate social circles to keep the depth and breadth of misery a secret too. Most everything was a secret from her family.

She was two people then. Catherine did the payroll, and verybadcat kited personal checks to get to work the week before payday. Catherine made good grades and enjoyed being back at school, but sometimes verybadcat just let everyone think she was in class, so she could have her brain to herself for a few hours. Catherine felt badly about leaving her husband home alone with no food or heat for decadent business dinners, but verybadcat snickered over it after a few cocktails.

This arrangement worked beautifully until both girls went alone for a secret long weekend in Ohio to mourn her last living grandparent, followed shortly by a week in Atlanta to help her baby sister bury her first love and witness with abject horror the effects of chemotherapy on her previously strong and healthy mother. All of that mortality shattered the illusion that there was room in one life for two girls- because she had felt the precious fleeting nature of this life, and because it occurred to her that the collision of all of those secrets would have made her own funeral apocalyptic.

They both decided that Catherine would stay and verybadcat had to go, since Catherine was a good girl and verybadcat was selfish and shameful.

It didn’t work out that way. One after another, the expectations Catherine had to meet fell away, and more people came to know both girls. Suddenly, verybadcat found herself single and starting a business. Catherine couldn’t let go. She needed more than ever to prove she was a good girl, but for the first time in her entire life, there was no one there to define what that meant.

Picking up where her experience left off, she made a list that included just about anything that made her too happy. Surely she didn’t deserve those things; every mistake, every failure, every rejection, every missed opportunity was proof that she was just a broken piece of trash that snuck her way into a place in the world far beyond her worth. Catherine ran behind verybadcat with a clipboard, counting up demerits and doling out punishments in the form of deprivation. She labored tirelessly to atone for verybadcat’s constant self-indulgence.

On Friday morning, Catherine filled a page with evidence of unworthiness easily before noon. She couldn’t get to the punishment, though, because verybadcat was solving her problems by helping beloved friends solve their problems, who in turn made her own solutions better. Catherine tried to calculate the cost of the love and support she was receiving, and fretted about the total deprivation required to even it out.

She had almost finished cleaning out the kitchen cabinets Friday night when it hit her.

There are no more secrets. There are no more outside expectations. The people who love me the most are the people who know me the best. The world, this world, my world finally needs me in whole. There is no good girl, no bad girl, no Catherine, and certainly no verybadcat. There is just me, in all my flawed perfection, essential to the whole and lacking nothing essential.

Just like the integral cat.

Are you okay? I know this was a hard day for you, do you want to talk a little? I’d like to know how you’re doing.

We had just executed a mass-layoff in my office, including most of my staff, and my knowledge of this impending doom preceded theirs by a little over a month. I had cried at the prep meeting, while terminating my Payables clerk, and with some coworkers after they were handed their pink slips. I cried all damn day, and only worried a little about my professional reputation.

I’m okay. I meant what I said earlier- this is the right thing for the business, it’s the right thing for those of us who remain- but that doesn’t make it any easier. I know that I’ve been able to look back on my darkest days six weeks, six months, six years down the road and I’ve had the solace of realizing that if I hadn’t faced that hardship, I wouldn’t be right here, and that’s always been a source of comfort to me. To be able to say of the hardest things that they helped make the best things in my life. I’m sad tonight for the people we let go, but more than anything, I just hope that they can look back later on and see that this ending was the beginning of something better.

A relieved smile spread from his eyes to his cheeks, and we chatted for a few minutes before someone cut in and I excused myself.

A few days shy of my thirty-second birthday, I still believe that. I can’t defend it, I can barely explain it, the best hope I have is to point to nature and say it is evidence to me of a higher order that we have not yet grasped in our knowledge of the universe.

If faith is an innate knowing, then this is mine, and I understand it in my bones.

I don’t know why bad things happen to good people, and I don’t know why some lives end so early or so unexpectedly. I understand that people hurt people because they hurt, but I don’t understand the cosmic value in so much pain. Perhaps there isn’t any at all, and I only seek to ascribe it some value to make peace with it somehow.

Since my earliest years of awareness, I’ve been called an old soul. Certainly, I’ve had a few encounters with strangers that were more recognition than introduction, and have always read between the lines without really realizing it. What that means is beyond any of us to understand, and I won’t do it the injustice of pinning it down. Those kinds of things are still magical to those of us that want to see them, and I suppose my biggest question for my coincidence and science friends is, simply:

Why wouldn’t you want to think that things happen for a reason, even if we don’t understand how or why?

I’m incredibly suspicious of anyone who doesn’t believe in something, one thing, anything that they can’t see.

Last night, I sat in the kitchen nook. The steam from my soup kissed my cheeks, and the faint smell of woodsmoke sat in the back of my throat. My thoughts drifted to my upcoming birthday and the annual reconciling of reality against my visions and dreams.

As always, my life looks nothing like what I ever imagined for myself. The people and experiences that filled the gap between my dreams and my defeats are both precious and priceless in their own right, and I choose to believe that they put me right here, right now, with this particular perspective. Any variation on my history would not have produced this moment, with these people, and my capacity to appreciate them.

You can argue with that all you want to, and I would relish the discussion.

What you can’t argue with is the sense of recognition and belonging that strikes deep and true, past my neurotic brain and my poor schizophrenic heart, straight into the marrow. It produces a warm calmness that whispers above all the noise of doubt and fear.

You belong here.

Unending hunger for proving myself beyond all expectation has served me very well. It’s how an agoraphobic high-school dropout with an algebra allergy, the oldest daughter of a middle-class family, came to hold a key financial position in a sizable organization and earn half a bachelor’s degree by her late twenties- in two inch heels and a wedding ring.

It’s also what held me together through the darkness of that life’s unraveling and the emptiness it left behind.

As one would imagine, a desire for vindication is compelling motivation to survive divorce and a diverging of paths with a corporate conglomerate. My limited research reveals its endurance at roughly eighteen months, just in case you were curious.

The best and worst thing about both divorce and entrepreneurship, simply:

There is no one left to argue with.

Going out into the business or dating world in search of a worthy opponent is generally counterproductive, though it certainly is an all-too-popular approach to either endeavor. The alternative is to internalize the competition- every mistake or miscalculation becomes evidence against your worthiness and success is just the midpoint in a constant cycle of proving your worth again and again and again.

Others sense this preoccupation and rightfully withhold investments of value, lest they lose your attention and favor to some shiny object that promises redemption.

My first attempt to combat this weakness was self-control and lack of expression. I learned how to hide my desire, but the best I’ve ever managed is an vague seething that unseats people more than transparency.

Powerless against its force, I made it my scapegoat and tried to eliminate it. This is what led me to my fondness for the works of Buddhist monks; desire is suffering, and my suffering sure as hell felt proportional to my desire. I found untold comfort and wisdom in their logic, but the seeds of doubt and fear were sown in that soil.

If I ever manage to conquer my desire, who will I become?

Whether you love or hate it, my intensity is an integral part of who I am as a person, a woman, and a writer. Most of the time, I love my passion and drive. Except, you know, when it makes me miserable.

A dear friend and sage advised me not to “taste the carrot”. He was speaking of the tendency we have to place more importance on any particular goal than the effort of striving and the value of desire in the creative process. In contemplating that concept, an unrelated mention of the devil as a symbolic representation of ego fit perfectly as the last piece in the puzzle.

Ego tricks us into thinking we know the inner workings of the universe, that we are capable of divining which friendships will endure, the right place for us in the lives of others, or the role of others in our own lives, which business opportunities will seal our success, or even that we are meant to prevail in an endeavor.

Those failures touch that aching, ancient pain all of us carry in some measure- they prove our worst fears about ourselves. Victory carries its own danger, as I am beginning to understand. Walk on water a few times, and every damn fish pond starts to look like a dance floor.

When determination is fueled by a need to prove superiority in the face of rejection, one starts to see any trace of doubt as a direct challenge. Without consideration for what is healthy, realistic, or even possible; the more impossible it is, the more determined I am to make it happen.

Drive and intensity are my gifts, and they bear some of the sweetest fruit I’ve tasted. Love, success, joy, fulfillment, and contentment- these universal desires motivate us to pursue rich and full lives.

Misery only sets in when my ego attempts to dictate how I receive these things, creating objects of desire and perpetuating the illusion that those broad yearnings rely on any one outcome.

The devil really is in the details, y’all.

Admitting to the ache of a deficit in available resources shows weakness, hunger, and is guilty of consorting with entitlement or a lack of gratitude. We feel compelled to appear strong, satisfied and brimming with humility at all times, and when it takes great effort, we shame ourselves for falling short. Ironically, that pain merely increases the deficit’s emotional load to its failure point, leading to abject misery.

The whole thing is so damn silly.

If we were never consumed with desire for more, we would never be compelled to discover, create, learn and grow. The implication that discontent is rooted in a lack of gratitude is a common manipulation tactic that plays on our shame in hopes of silencing our drive to transcend the limitations others find convenient. It too operates from a place of scarcity rather than abundance, in assuming that whatever it is you ache for will infringe on their share of the resource.

The universe, in all its exquisite irony, rewards those who operate from a place of abundance. When we approach a resource with a sense of scarcity, we become insatiable. Instinctually, we are driven by fear, anger and doubt. This repels people and opportunity, which reinforces our perception of scarcity. Decisions made from perceived abundance are motivated in courage, love and faith, which is where all the magic hides

I wish I could tell you exactly how to transform an aching desire for something more and better into a sense of abundance. The letter I got from the universe yesterday, about not regretting love because it always fosters growth appears to be a clue. I’ve been thinking about time, money, love and regret all day.

As dawn approaches, it occurs to me that the regret is the only thing I cannot afford.

It’s a start.

Behind the podium, I alternately check my notes and stare at the back wall while people file into the room and settle into their seats. There are wooden chairs or pews, I can never quite tell, in this dimly lit room with horribly colored walls. Some kind of goldenrod, with just an overtone of olive green, or is that the shadow, maybe, and oak accents. The roof is beamed, and the architecture reminds me of a sanctuary, but I can never remember if there are stained glass windows, or whether I’m standing merely at the front of the room or at an altar.

The  hum of  people slows to a whisper and then near-silence.

Tears welling in my eyes and a thick lump in my throat provide the sensation of being behind an aquarium wall- I could scream and no one would hear my cries as the water stole my breath and my voice without trying. Quiet determination wins a slow victory, and I try to scan the audience and make out their faces. Looking for someone to speak directly to, an old trick.

I’m searching for someone specific, someone with kind eyes and a steady gaze, who will eye me expectantly and maybe tip his chin up ever so slightly, as if to say go on, girl, you can do this. If I could focus on just his face, I could find my voice and carry on. He isn’t there, or I can’t pick him out- my vision won’t sharpen, but I can’t feel his energy, I can’t sense his presence among everyone else. My fingertips prickle with panic and my breath comes too quickly as I stare at my notes, willing myself to speak that first sentence and break the now noticeable silence.

Blinded by terror, the words are senseless, like ants running across the page.  I can hear nothing else but my own roaring thought: who are you looking for? The realization that I don’t know washes over me and sends the room spinning.

With my eyes fully closed, I hear myself speak one sentence before the sensation of falling down a rabbit hole startles me awake.

Thank you for being here today to honor the life and memory of my father.

My waking reaction varies. Sometimes the stunning icy fear still has my chest in its grasp when my eyes fly open, sometimes I wake up covered in cold sweat and hot tears. Sometimes I manage some gentle self-admonishment as I roll over and think of sweeter things. Sometimes it stays with me for days, and I find myself daydreaming about the exact color of the paint, or about the windows, wondering why I never remember those maddening details.

I’m always disturbed and perplexed by my utter inability to make do by fixing my gaze on a spot on the back wall, but I don’t like to think about that.