Many years ago, during my darkest hour, I held a small grain of hope that there would be days like today. A still, clear, quiet, sun-dappled morning–children sleeping in upstairs rooms, an old dog curled at my feet. A populated solitude. Alone but not lonely. This is a day extraordinary in its utter ordinariness. I had faith and I am here and I am grateful.
The final years of my first marriage were like walking barefoot along the razor’s edge of sanity. Each careful sliding step away from my old life sliced me to the bone. I was not just leaving a marriage; I was extricating myself from destructive patterns of loving. Truly changing yourself is not an easy exercise. Imagine self-amputation of a seemingly vital organ—you are sure it will kill you—but miraculously it cures.
As a result, there is a dividing line in me as essential in marking my…
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