I WOULD IDENTIFY THE PEOPLE IN THIS PHOTO, BUT I DON’T REMEMBER ANY OF THEM EXCEPT THE ONE IN THE MIDDLE: MARY BLICHMAN. IN HIGH SCHOOL (AND TODAY) SHE WAS BRIGHT, INFECTIOUS, POSITIVE ENERGY PERSONIFIED. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRIEND!
(I cannot wait to see you in July, which Sheila assures me is in the works!)
First off, I used the word misanthrope because it is a great word. I don’t really qualify as one, but it also serves the purpose of letting you know right off the bat that I’m no relationship expert! I once read an article in which a woman said, “I love mankind. Individual people annoy the hell out of me.” That’s fairly representational of my feelings, or at least of my natural, introverted inclinations. However, inclinations change. At least mine have, and I’d like to share some things I’ve learned about loving others which (now that I know them) have changed my life. Really. They’ve changed my life.
I am not required to tell others what I really think about them, their choices, their actions. Once, I was with a friend who was telling me that he and his wife were thinking about having a child. His wife was really pushing for it, but he wasn’t sure. He shared his reasons for being unsure, and I told him they were, essentially, stupid. He responded, “You know, some friends would just listen and empathize.” This particular friend, at that particular moment, needed someone to hear what he was feeling, not someone to argue against him. The trick, and the art of being a good friend, is learning the difference between these times, and those moments when what your friend is looking for is someone to help them face a hard truth. Parker Palmer suggests (in Let Your Life Speak) that we must “avoid the unconscious violence we do when we try to save each other”, that we must learn to “hold another life without dishonoring its mystery”. In other words, sometimes just being quietly yet fully present to another is enough.
I am not required to tell others everything I feel. I used to avoid telling anyone what I felt, and that included myself. In order to open my life to more and healthier relationships, I’ve had to learn to acknowledge my emotions and, yes, to express them. Finding that sweet spot, you know the one where you allow others to know your heart without knocking their feet out from under them like a riptide, is terribly difficult. Frankly, I still suck at it. Sometimes, I don’t share my feelings when or how it is most appropriate (usually because I am arguing with myself about whether I should), then I blurt them out at moments when others are completely unprepared. Sharing honestly without hurting or knocking others down – practicing this skill is key to mastering it!
Being RIGHT is overrated. Let’s face it, we all love being right. We love being in the right. Sometimes, this is important. But not as often as we think, especially in relationships. I’m a middle child, and early in life was known for over-using the phrase, “That’s not fair!” I would go to great lengths to prove I was right. And when I did, it was almost always a hollow victory. It turned out I was either the only one who cared OR my need to be right had taken the spontaneous fun out of the moment. Now, when my entire family gets together, I enjoy staying out of the fray. Let others fight for control, for the decision-making power, or for the sheer delight of fighting to be right. The gift of this approach is that I get to stay in peaceful connectedness with all my loved ones. I just wish I had known this at 18. I would so have avoided that unfortunate kick-fight with my 19-year-old sister one morning before going to college classes together!
I am capable of loving people whom I know to be flawed. One day, I was hanging with a friend whom I just love. I mean, this friend is really special, wonderful, funny, loving, kind, beautiful inside and out. And then, something was said by this person that completely shocked me. It revealed a weakness in my friend’s character. The kind of weakness that, in the past, I might have considered a “fatal flaw”, in that it could have killed our friendship. And that’s when it hit me that I could choose to extend my love and friendship anyway. That I could see someone’s weaknesses and flaws clearly and still love them. That blindness to these traits is not a requirement of love. In some cases, I am actually learning to love the flaws. No, really! Being in relationships intimate enough that I actually know these things and see them as an endearing part of the whole package is a gift beyond measure. It is a gift I hope to learn to extend to myself, as well.
When in doubt, choose the most loving course of action. This suggestion, while akin to “being right is overrated”, takes the concept a step further. There are often times in relationships when we don’t know the right thing to do. Should I go over there? Or give her space? Say something? Or hold my tongue? Take a stand/give an ultimatum? In my experience, the right path can proceed forward from whichever step I take, as long as that step is taken with a loving heart. Importantly, my action needs to express love for the other, and for myself. And that tends to be the hard part. It is easier to step into the role of martyr (“See how I sacrifice for you?”) or that of the self-righteous (“I don’t deserve/need this!”) than it is to carefully navigate a loving response. Yes, there may be times that the most loving response is to walk away. But, by and large, the great beauties of relationship develop when we work through these tough issues and come out stronger on the other side.
I don’t think there’s anything new or earth-shaking in this guide. I am an imperfect practitioner of each point. But I’m learning how important each one is to deepening relationship. I also don’t think its any coincidence that each one refers to maintaining a balance between self and other in relationships. I no longer think it is possible to have loving relationships with others if I don’t have one with myself.
One last thought: being a misanthrope (allowing minor things about others to annoy me) was a defense mechanism that kept people at arm’s length. If I could be blunt or dismissive or right, I didn’t have to risk letting people close enough that I could be hurt. Recently, I was talking to my friend Tricia, who is a mental-health counselor. I said, “I cry a lot more often than I used to.” And her response was, “Thinking about the person you used to be, and how your life has changed, would you really want to go back? Isn’t crying, even if it is a little every day, a small price to pay?” And, of course, she’s right.
Other kids loved art. Finger painting, coloring, sidewalk chalk. It was ok. When I colored, I liked to color hard to get the most vibrant hues. I never understood those kids who drew lightly with their crayons, filling the space between the lines with pale apricot-ty pastels. But that was about the sum total of my opinion on arts and crafts time for kids.
Then, in first grade, I discovered words. Spelling. Vocabulary. And best of all, the art of writing stories. It was a book, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, that rocked my world. Having been taught to read with the famously boring Dick and Jane readers, I had never understood that storytelling could go where “The Peppers” took me: into an imaginary world not of my own making. The rest of that year, Mrs. Burns, my teacher, was constantly yelling at me to stop reading in class.
I’ve been a talker and a writer ever since.
Which isn’t to say that I’ve never appreciated other art forms. I have always known musicians and artists, even the occasional serious dancer. My brother Jeff has spent his life as an actor, director, playwright and sometime songwriter. I have been deeply moved by various works and mediums. But I have primarily remained a spectator, not a participant (except for a brief but disastrous period in which I took classical guitar lessons in college – I still owe the world an apology for that one!).
And then along came Art Day. While there were many experiences and influences leading up to my foray into the visual arts (namely my siblings Anne and Matt and our dear friend the artistic genius Syndy Ziegenfuss), Art Day seemed to arrive out of the blue. Here’s how it happened — one November a few years ago, my aunt and cousin invited me to an in-home show and sale of their work, and I took my friend Sue with me. I believe there were five women in that show, and their pieces ranged from jewelry and home decor items to truly stunning works of art, such as Stephanie’s bead mosaics and paintings. Over hot cider and cookies, I heard myself say to Steph, “We should get together and spend a day working on stuff. It could be fun.”
Where did that suggestion come from? Like many times in my life, my mouth seemed to open of its own accord, and out came something completely unexpected…surprising even me. Stephanie accepted immediately, as did Sue. Within minutes my aunt, Paula, made it clear she did not intend to be left out of the so-called “fun”. It was only later that Sue and I, probably sipping chai tea in some coffee shop, confessed to thinking the same thought: Holy crap. What did I just get myself into?
April 1980: celebrating the last days of my freshman year in college. LaDonna (seated), me with the long pigtails, left to right in back Myrlene, Jane, Lynne. Picnic as Jane’s house in Key West, IA. I have not stayed in touch with any of these women, though two joined religious orders (and I believe LaDonna is at Clarke University, our alma mater). I have no idea who snapped the photo. Sorry, friend!
Many things about my childhood predisposed me to believe in magic. The mighty Mississippi, limestone bluffs riddled with old lead mines, our proximity to the library which had an amazing children’s room. Five siblings with creative imaginations, and parents who encouraged the use of them, also helped. So I grew up believing in many kinds of magic. Supernatural magic, such as Santa Claus, elves and pixies, wishing on stars. Religious magic, like patron saints or my very own guardian angel. And there was everyday magic: the longing induced by a lone barge whistle, snow falling softly through lamplight, the profusion of lilac blossoms in spring.
For most of my adult life, I’ve tried to hold onto the magic. The tension between being a grown up (making decisions, earning a living, surviving the hard parts like illness and despair) AND a believer in magic is oftentimes difficult to resolve such that you can successfully be both. I frequently get it wrong, and discover that I have ventured into territory in which one or the other is lost, to the detriment of my ability to function well. If I am overbalanced on the side of “magic”, I stray into magical thinking and dreaming and lose the present moment in which to create my life. If I stand too deep in the land of grown ups, I forget how to be touched by beauty and wonder, how to welcome grace when it enters my life.
Love can be an instructive example of what I mean. In the grown up world, we learn to love in spite of weaknesses, human foibles, habits that we don’t care for (both in ourselves and in those we love). Love is about learning where people are in life, then accepting ourselves and others exactly there. In the world of magic, love is about soul mates who just get us, moments that propel us into a feeling of flow, our perfect selves connecting with another perfect self who dreams with us about all the perfect possibilities out there. This is true for all kinds of love, not just romantic love. Too far to the “grown up” side, and we lose the childlike joy that relationship brings; we leave out the “…and all” part of the phrase, leaving us with just the “warts…” part. Too far on the magic side, and we end up in a lovely castle made of air, which may blow away at the first puff of rough weather. Love needs both our grown up selves and our magic-believer selves.
Love has taught me a lot this year, both about being a grown up and about believing in magic. It turns out that the magic of love happens in ways and places we don’t expect. Sometimes we get one thing when we were hoping for something else. The grown up in us needs to learn to be content that this is so. Because every bit of it is miraculous, every incarnation of love is magic.
I was thinking about this at my friend Ryan’s birthday party last weekend. He was a 19-year-old college student and I was a 36-year-old administrator when we met. An unlikely pair. Yet, words cannot express the depth of feeling I have for him — brother, colleague, co-conspirator all wrapped up in one big ball of love. You will never convince me that is anything but magic!
So, I try to hold that old tension. Try to be both grown up and believe in magic. And really, now that I think about it, love in all its forms is the perfect melding of the two.
Sunday night, my friend Wendy and I went on a whirlwind Christmas shopping expedition. As we finished two intense hours and were heading home, Wendy asked if I would mind stopping briefly at K-Mart. She said she gets many stocking stuffers and gag gifts there each year, but often forgets to go there until she’s been everywhere else first. I don’t frequent K-Mart regularly myself, but I didn’t mind stopping.
As we wandered down one of the wide “center” aisles, filled with special gift items, I happened to see a gift box of Tabu — the scent I wore and loved throughout college. The gift box came with a spray bottle of cologne, a small purse-sized bottle and a tube of scented lotion for the amazing price tag of…wait for it…$9.90.
Me: I didn’t even know they still made this stuff! I wore this all the way through college. I used to love it!
Wendy: Then you have to buy it, an early Christmas present for yourself! Come on, you can’t beat the price!
Me: It probably stinks. I would guess that what I liked at 19 isn’t the same as what I like thirty years later!
Wendy: No, you’ll probably still love it! Come one, you have to get it.
And so I left K-Mart, the proud owner of the Tabu gift set. And guess what? I have been wearing it ever since, and…I smell goooood. I smell like carnations, and spice, and a little powder in addition to young, hopeful, and idealistic. I thought my tastes had taken me into more sophisticated sensory territory back in graduate school when I discovered Perry Ellis perfume. But I guess I have always been a Tabu girl masquerading as a designer scent profile!
This has led me to wonder what other “childish” likes or pursuits I’ve given up in the name of maturity but should reconsider now. As you know, I’ve already gone back to biking as a favorite pastime, and a couple of years ago I discovered that I still enjoy roller skating. But what else did I decide, prematurely, I was too sophisticated, too sua-vee, too plain OLD for? Here is a partial list I’d like to check out now, and see how they fare:
As is the case for most people, I think, I was in a hurry to grow up — or at least to appear grown up to the rest of the world. “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me” (1 Corinthians) was a credo I took seriously. I never wanted people to think of me as childish, so I was quick to monitor my choices for what they communicated about my level of maturity. This bible verse talks about taking up adult responsibilities and mature thought processes, definitely important for all. However, as in all things, a balance is called for. “And he said: ‘I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven’ ” says Matthew 18:3. The balance between these two good admonitions is what I am seeking in my life now.
When I was in college, there were numerous silly things we did to amuse ourselves. Last summer, I had a small reunion with several friends, and we resurrected our “snapping turtle” skills (see photo, below). I can’t tell you (because I’ve never known) how this started or why, but we laughed so hard attempting the snapping turtle faces, 25+ years out of practice, that I realized it is time to stop worrying about appearing childish or foolish – and to start reveling in it! Sincere enjoyment in the moment is childlike, not childish, and hits that lovely balance I’m seeking.
Now, how about it? Anyone for a strawberry soda – my treat!
(Note: This entry was written last week, but I posted the resilience piece instead. To clarify, the adventure took place Labor Day Weekend)
Throughout the summer, my friend Sarah Botkin and I have been riding our bikes together, with the goal of riding from Dubuque to Dyersville on the Heritage Trail sometime this fall. Since that trip will be approximately 52 miles, we have gradually added mileage as the summer has progressed. Unfortunately, August and the start of the academic year derailed us a bit, and we missed three key weeks of riding. Back on the trail, as I wrote in last week’s entry, we recommitted ourselves to getting ready for the longer day trip. As part of that plan, we decided to use the Sunday of Labor Day weekend to ride to Center Point and back. We invited our intrepid friend (and new bike owner) Colette to join us.
And then the mishaps began. The biggest and most serious was that a member of Sarah’s family experienced a medical emergency that took her out-of-state for the long weekend. At first, I didn’t feel right about taking the ride without Sarah, though in the email she sent notifying us of her changed plans, Sarah strongly encouraged us to go anyway. After much thought and discussion, Colette and I decided to continue with the plan.
Sunday morning dawned a little cloudy, which I know because I went to bed so early Saturday night, I couldn’t sleep past 5:30 a.m. Eventually, I rolled out of bed (around 7:30 — amazing how long I could lay there anticipating the day while not sleeping!) and dressed. I hopped in my car and, after a pit stop at the Boyson Road Starbuck’s, headed north on I-380 toward the sleeping town of Center Point. I was on a reconnaissance mission, since we planned to eat lunch in Center Point before heading back to Cedar Rapids. I wanted to see where the trail access was in relation to the eateries in town. While driving, the clouds disappeared, and a truly beautiful day commenced. I was excited to begin!
Once home, I gathered the items I would need: in my sport bag I placed cash, an ID, my sunscreen lip-balm, and a short-sleeved shirt (the morning was cool enough for long sleeves, but with the sun shining I expected it to warm up); a bottle of water; my tennis shoes with the bright orange accents were lined up on the kitchen floor next to my bike helmet.
I have a bike rack that hooks onto the trunk of my car and which makes me incredibly nervous…perhaps as a result of the accident I had last summer when my bike fell off the rack as I exited the interstate. But that’s another story! Colette and I were scheduled to meet at 10:00 at the Hiawatha trail access parking lot. At 8:50, I took the bike rack from the trunk of my car and began hooking it up. My bike was in place, rack and cycle as secure as possible with three additional bungee cords preventing slippage, at 9:58. Suddenly, my leisurely morning had turned frantic. As I backed slowly out of my driveway, I called Colette to warn her I would be late. I drove a full five miles under the speed limit, constantly checking my rearview to ascertain that the contraption and cargo remained secure.
Colette was running behind as well, due to a dead battery on her van. We met up, only 15 minutes behind schedule. And that is when I realized that I had brought my bag, but not my helmet. Colette, veteran of a nasty spill last year (on bicycle safety day at her kids’ school, no less!) insisted on a return to my house for the helmet — and truth be told, I wouldn’t ride without one. It was a much faster trip back home to retrieve my helmet because I left the bicycle with Colette. When I returned to Hiawatha, put on my helmet and prepared to mount my bike, I realized that my tennis shoes were at home, and on my feet were a pair of Adidas slides. Good friend that she is, Colette offered to wait while I made yet another trip back to the house. However, after a quick ride around the parking lot, I was convinced that I would be fine nearly barefoot.
That feeling lasted until I saw the snake, at approximately mile 9 on the trail. I caught sight of it on the path with barely enough time to miss its tail by a quarter-inch. The snake saw me coming, though, and had reared back and struck just as I swerved to avoid it. Luckily, it missed — and I don’t believe it was a poisonous variety, though I truthfully didn’t stop to take a closer look. (Colette did, and claims it was a corn snake. It was certainly colorful enough to be one). Note to self: never be on the trail without appropriate footwear!
The ride was easily the most beautiful of the summer. The weather was perfect, the trail sun-dappled but cool. Colette and I rode apace of each other and talked most of the thirteen miles out to Center Point. When we arrived in town, we discovered that small towns in Iowa maintain an old tradition: restaurants are closed on Sundays. This was particularly problematic for me, as it turned out that in addition to forgetting to bring important items, in my obsession over the bike rack, I had also forgotten to eat breakfast. At 11:58 a.m. Colette and I walked into the only place we found open — the “One of a Grind” coffee shop, which closes at noon on Sundays.
Fortunately, the folks at “One of a Grind” are a really great, friendly family who agreed to let us eat and chatted with us on our break. If you are ever in Center Point, please give this place a try — the food is delicious (I didn’t actually try the coffee, but the iced tea was perfect).
Back on our bikes, both now sporting short sleeves, Colette and I made good time with less chatter. That is, until we really started getting slugged by the wind. The final 3 or 4 miles were difficult — I felt like a salmon swimming upstream, though nothing as grand as spawning was at the end of the road for us. Mostly sore butts and windburn. And a sense of accomplishment. We labored, and it was good.
My birth certificate reads: Jenifer Ann Hanson. My parents told me, when I was young, that they spelled Jenifer with one “n” so that they could call me Jenny but spell it J-e-n-i. Until I was in graduate school, everyone in the world called me Jeni. Once at the University of Iowa, my faculty called me Jenifer because that was the name on the class lists, and I didn’t bother to correct them. I liked the new identity that going by my full name provided. Jeni was young, uncertain, self-conscious, girl-y. But Jenifer was a mature and professional woman. Pre-1986: Jeni. Post-1986: Jenifer.
A lot of other life-altering events and processes took place post-1986 as well. Including an almost complete break with the friends who had been important in my life until then. I held onto family, and one or two people from graduate school. Every five years or so, I’d be in touch with my college roommate, Vicky Powers Wong. But other than that, there was a defining line that broke my life into two halves: before and after. Some of those relationships ended in the normal course of life events which take us into new arenas, keep us busy with the daily tasks of living, and generally make it difficult to maintain contact (especially in those days, before cell phones, text messages and facebook). Others ended over hurts, breakups, misunderstandings. And some just from my own laziness about staying in touch, and friends who eventually gave up when I clearly was making no effort.
After a while, I realized I missed these people who had been such a part of my formative years. By then, though, I didn’t know how to bridge the gaps and I lacked the self-confidence to believe that they would want to have me in their lives again. There were no high school or college reunions for me…well, there was one disastrous reunion at Clarke where my nerves led me to drink too much and say exactly the wrong thing to everyone I saw. That cemented my belief that the past was sealed to me, and since no one would speak to me by the brunch on Sunday I know I wasn’t imagining it!
This summer, when I least expected or looked for it, reconnection has happened. I owe much of it to facebook, the rest to people with loving and forgiving hearts. While each person I’ve reconnected with has been a joy and gift, there are three in particular to whom I owe a debt – Mike, Carol, and Marty. And here’s why: these three people knew me intimately at times in my life when I was both my best and worst self. They saw me grow, strive, learn…they also saw me smoke, puke, make a fool of myself in public. They always believed in the person I could be, even at times when I was far from behaving like her. And after years of silence, these three who have reason to shun overtures from me, welcomed me back into their lives as if I am my best self now.
As part of this incredible summer, people from the before and people from the after have been meeting one another. For me, this has been a little surreal at times (as it was for Mike when everyone knew his name before my introduction). When my sister Gwen’s family finally met the Dennis family, after more than a decade of hearing about one another, I was surprised by how much fun we had (and that my neices think its a good idea for us all to vacation together next summer). Suddenly, people who have always known me as Jenifer have decided they have permission to call me Jeni — and those who have always called me Jeni have adamantly refused to call me anything else, unless they are making a point. There is no longer a separation between people based on the name they use for me.
More important, I feel like there has been a reunification within myself, as stunning on a personal level as the reunification of Germany was on an international level. I am whole in a way I wasn’t before – I embrace all versions of my name, my self. There are still unmended relationships from my past, a couple of people who haven’t accepted my friend requests. But I want Carol, Marty, Mike — and all of the rest of you who have taken me back into your graces — to know how grateful I am. The truth about real relationship is this: how I feel about myself and/or you in a particular moment may vary. But below that, in the deeper always of my heart, there is love.
Affectionately yours,
Jeni
Potlucks. I cannot say how many times in my life I’ve inwardly groaned at the thought of attending one. And not only because I’m too lazy to make a covered dish to bring, though I am. The thought of eating a mish-mash of food I generally wouldn’t serve at home, and making small talk with a bunch of people crammed in a room somewhere…well, you can tell from my description that I haven’t been much of a fan of the whole potluck experience.
That may be changing.
Today, my little house was filled to overflowing with people who arrived in a swarm (like a plague of benevolent locusts?!), set out food and condiments, made themselves at home and generally settled in for a good, old-fashioned eatfest. Except that the food included delicious salads, fruit, low-fat key-lime pie, and fresh corn dip (alongside the traditional brownies, better than sex cake, pulled pork sandwiches, and chips).
Ok, so I was actually hosting a potluck (to celebrate my own birthday, nonetheless). But as I looked around, at friends and colleagues talking and laughing, all jammed in the living room to be together rather than spread out in the small seating areas I had arranged throughout the main floor rooms, I had a moment of clarity. Potlucks celebrate community, and the community seated in my living room is one we have been creating for a long time.
We have shared road trips, disasters (both natural and of human creation), births, traumas, bike rides, weddings and karaoke nights. We have shared the range of human emotions, we have offered words of comfort and support. We have made each other laugh when feelings of anger, sadness, or hopelessness threatened to overwhelm. Not each person in the room has been part of every one of these events, but that’s how communities work: they share the load — whether that is the work of preparing food or the effort of finding a smile on a tough day.
Not to worry, I didn’t spend all my time lost in introspection — mostly I enjoyed the event and the moment I was in. But later in the evening, in Iowa City, Wendy and I wandered into a shop which sells a line of greeting cards that really appealed to me. One spoke to me in a particular way about the day’s events. It says, “Some people call them decades — I prefer to call them my ‘collected works’.” (Curly Girl Design/Leigh Standly) And it struck me that being a part of my community of friends, being one of the weavers of this large web of relationships, is a part of my “collected works” I’m both proud of and immensely humbled by. And I will take every opportunity to celebrate this — even if it means becoming a fan of the traditional potluck.
I have been thinking about this line from a Denise Levertov poem all week: what we desire travels with us. This is true, I think, across distances, across time, across differing levels of maturity or growth.
When I was a teenager, I spent one evening hanging out at the home of my best friend’s mother’s best friend. Four women, two teens and two in their 50s, bonding over canned peppers (we tasted mild, hot, and fiery) and the ways we experienced our gender. I’ve never forgotten that night, and I still desire time with my women friends, times of support and solidarity and sisterhood.
Last weekend, my cousin visited and when we got up on Sunday morning, we talked and laughed over a pot of coffee. Some of my favorite moments have been these unremarkable early morning coffee-klatches with family or friends. I love a solitary and reflective cup of coffee at the local coffee shop, but I still desire the unguarded and open moments of sharing before beginning the day’s tasks.
My friend Sue is a talented basket weaver and jewelry maker. “I just want someone to do this with me,” she regularly laments, explaining why she hasn’t created anything lately. I totally understand her dilemma, because my whole life I have desired the same — companions nearby who share my interests and schedule, who will just be physically present with me while we do our things.
There are transient desires in my life as well…sometimes I think I need this thing or that gadget. Good Will has benefitted greatly from the purchases made while experiencing these impulses (a brown down coat that made me resemble a human-sized turd; the “Twilight” book series; a host of neon-colored plastic baubles). But the lasting desires remain steady, even if the surface details change. An endless summer day that winds down to a magical moonlit night is timeless, though the activities it contains may vary over the years. The love of dear people who know us intimately is deeply desired, though each relationship takes on its own unique character.
Like the nautilus, that lovely “living fossil”, we carry our homes with us — though theirs is literal and ours is a figurative home. As the nautilus shell curves inward, into ever smaller chambers, so do our desires: as we strip away the outer details, we find ever smaller kernels of desire for which our hearts truly long. And these desires are the companions of our lifes journeys, whether we acknowledge them or not. What I am learning, on my journey, is that it is acknowledging what we desire, without judging ourselves or our worthiness, that brings us closest to satisfying our heart’s deepest wishes.
Jenion 