Once upon a time when I was very sad and very alone I would walk a certain stretch of beach for miles and dream of the woman I would like to be and say to myself, over and over:
That woman is worth waiting to meet.
I did that for years. It kept me alive. It kept me sane. It kept me going.
Sometime and somewhere during the last 13 years I became that woman I waited to meet.
Along that path I met many sisters who held me up physically, energetically or spiritually
(in small rooms, in big conversations, in silence, in chaos, with grace and with patience).
They did not offer me refuge or remedies. They offered me presence and acknowledgement.
Along that path I met gurus and sages. They offered me questions, not answers. They pointed me in a direction but did not tell me what I would find.
Along that path I met the moon and the sun. They did not offer me their light. They offered me their consistency, a space in the sky to store my heart and a promise that if I showed up each day and night, so would they.
Along that path I met my small self. At the bottom of wine glasses, in bad poetry, in the arms of the ocean, on the limbs of suicide, in caverns of doubt and in mazes of mirrors, each one reflecting a different side of me.
And I met my true self. At the bottom of wells of silence and reflected in pools of stillness.
Once I met myself I could finally begin to meet you. One by one, online and in person, in yoga classes and coffee houses, in the land of loss and the land of laughter, broken and whole, human being to human being.
Wherever we are and however we are, we are in this thing together. In fact, we are this thing.