Strength in these times …

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It is a few days after Thanksgiving 2021. Thanksgiving was a mark of hope and celebration. My sibs (minus one who was missed deeply), their spouses, my husband and daughter along with assorted nieces and nephews and a grandnephew, etc. gathered for the first time in two years with good food, hugs, and a puzzle. (Where my family gathers, there is always a puzzle.) It was a joyous couple of hours steeped in stories and memories, bad jokes and Alexa playing ‘Fishheads’ and the ‘Adams Family Theme’ . . . just silly family stuff that anyone but us would consider a bit daft.

We get along well and there is warmth and love for each person. It wasn’t always this way but having lived through family estrangements, separations, and losses, we have wisely and usually humbly found that missing each other far outweighs being “right” in whatever arguments or disagreements fractured us. And now as we find ourselves responsible for overseeing our Dad’s care in a nursing home that, although one of the better ones, still on occasion neglects care we deem important, we lean on each other for strength to make difficult decisions and cajole staff to give the care he needs.

I thank God that we sibs have each other. I am grateful that we can talk through the issues and decisions that we have had to make happen. The strength to live through life’s challenges and the times that no one should have to face solo comes from sharing them with others. The isolation we’ve felt since the Pandemic began two years ago has taught me that I need others — much more than I thought I did. Despite the appearance of strength that so many people say they see in me, when I try to face things alone my strength more readily and swiftly drains away. With people around me who care about me, my strength returns. And then I gain strength from sharing myself with others. I’ve learned that being strong is often tied to how inter-connected and loved I feel — and I’ve paid attention to how that can change.

Changes in levels of strength are evident to me in the gospel story of Mary that I’m preaching on for Advent 4 Sunday. Mary has been asked to carry and birth a special child who will embody God’s love in human form. She could have said no but she eagerly answered yes. With little thought to what the child will need from her and what challenges lay ahead, the first weeks of her pregnancy are exciting. And not knowing is probably a good thing. Who truly wants to know what the future holds when the present day already has so many challenges? As time passes, doubts begin to form about all that she does not know about mothering. Gossipy relatives question her judgment. Joseph adds his wonderings to her anxiety.

I can sense Mary’s joy and excitement and anticipation at first — yet then the rising apprehension and uncertainty that her passionate “yes” had brought. Does she have enough strength to see her through? Perhaps not by herself. And then came the nudge that she followed to visit her cousin Elizabeth who doted on her and who (unbeknownst to Mary until she arrived) was also carrying a special child. Elizabeth, well past childbearing age, also needed the courage of another woman to help her strength renew. These two women sought companionship and found with each other the strength to banish uncertainties and wonderings so normal in any pregnancy.

We women often seek other women in times of stress and an unknown future. We are living in such a time . . . a time when we can no longer be confident of a brighter future or secure in familiar routines, established holiday traditions, and customary expectations of what our day holds. My days often include feeling a new dread when an emergent Covid variant is discovered . . . or trying to decide whether to go to family celebrations and friends’ gatherings and wondering what is safe . . . or feeling exhausted as I search for a part to repair a broken appliance when everything seems out of stock due to supply issues. The world we are living in requires a constant alertness to be aware of what we need to do. Mindless automatic behaviors are a thing of the past. We live in an alien world that demands focused attention to what we do — and more strength than I usually have.

Yet I have discovered a secret source for a “strength reboot”. Other caring women. Whether by Zoom or phone or in person, being with other women renews my strength. These are women who share laughter, who share stories and observations about disappointments and fears, who are willing to explore deeply the changes that are happening within them and around them. Companioning with trusted women replenishes the strength and hope we all need to rejoin our life path in the midst of changes and challenges.

Blessings to each of you in this season when darkness threatens to triumph. May you not give in to darkness, but celebrate Light in whatever way you choose: Hanukkah, Diwali, Christmas, other. I wish for you relationships of trust with wise women (and men) that will renew your strength and light your path toward ever brightening days.

Remembering

Fall Coziness

This year (2021) — especially this Fall — has put me in a mood for remembering . . .

That sounds a bit contradictory since I’ve mentioned feeling concerned when (like most of those over 65) I cannot locate a word that is on the “tip of my tongue”. We psychologists call it “word-finding difficulty”. It can show up also when the name of someone I have known for years hides from me as I am about to introduce them to another friend. I am less panicky about such lapses now since I’ve noticed that 99% of the time the name or the word comes to me if I relax and wait for it.

Lately, though, something odd and quite lovely — linked with remembering — has been happening to me. When I am occupied with some project (gardening or folding laundry or sewing binding on a quilt) a distant memory — not consciously sought — suddenly appears in my mind’s “eye”. Such memory “pop-ups” are not anything I have been thinking about prior to their appearance. Nor are they anything that I have been wondering about. They appear unbidden. I love these “pop-up” surprises because they are usually about an experience that stirs warm emotions. If I welcome the image or memory, more parts of it seem to unfold so that it is like I am looking into an episode of my past that has been buried deep in my unconscious.

For most of my adult life, I have felt I lived several separate lives. I’m not referring to the idea of past lives nor do I mean that I’ve experienced amnesia and had to start again with no memory of a previous life. No. What I mean is that my life has been a series of starts in one direction that were summarily blocked from continuing by events beyond my control. I have had two periods of my life where I was a wife and that was the most important thing about me and then I was widowed — all before age 35. I had other periods where I was a single parent who worked fulltime and went to grad school to be able to have skills to support the two of us. I had another life time when I developed a private psychotherapy practice and was in demand as a motivational speaker and consultant. Then I lost that opportunity when I was not accepted as a female colleague by a male boss who ordered me to resign. Then (married again) my husband lost his job due to an ethical breach by his boss and the loss included medical benefits. That wouldn’t have been so disastrous but both of us had survived cancer and our preexisting conditions meant we were uninsureable. . .well, you understand.

What I’ve learned through recent therapy is that it wasn’t that I was uncommitted to the life/lives I was living. It was just that there was no possibility of continuing with them due to circumstances. So they felt like a separate life.

Memories from each of these “lives” tended to be left behind. And there were lots of good memories and happy experiences that got left behind and I didn’t remember them.. And those memories of good things are what are coming to me in these memory pop-ups and images. In a very real way, they are “redeeming” each period of my life. What had, until recently, been “lost experiences” now are coming back to remind me of adventures, friendships, love expressed, opportunities made possible by that particular blend of people, specific time periods, and my stage of development.

Remembering takes time, I’m learning. Time is something I now have that wasn’t possible prior to two things: the Covid shutdown that slowed me down; being retired and able to slow my formerly harried and scattered self. And the memories then can emerge. Mostly good memories, a few difficult ones. But they all help me acknowledge that I have had a fortunate life . . . or “lives”. I think I’ll go sit by the fire pit on my patio and see what might pop up tonight . . .

Ventral Playlist

You may be asking what a Vagal Playlist is. Most people would have no idea.

I entered therapy again recently (as a patient) and have a therapist who introduced me to PolyVagal Therapy (a la Deb Dana) . It is an amazing healing way of looking at trauma and learning the tools to manage the fight/flight/freeze responses that come with having experienced repeated trauma. I am walking through traumatic memories and flashbacks with my therapist and can calm my panicky responses by knowing what vagal state I am in and employing music or self-soothing or using my creativity with sewing or writing to move me to a safer state. One of the suggestions for something that might calm me or energize me is a Ventral playlist. I have started to make a list of music that moves me from Dorsal state (where I curl up in “freeze” mode because life feels too unsafe) toward Ventral state in which I begin to feel safer and feel what brings me hope.

So I am sharing some of the titles of music that fairly reliably help me get to Ventral. They are of widely varying tempo and genre and so there isn’t a smooth flow from one to the other. And you will have to search for them on iTunes or Amazon Music or wherever you find your music (I can’t violate copyright by sharing them here). Please let me know in the Comments section below what songs make you feel safe, give you joy, help you feel most alive.

Learning to Fall (Loren & Navarro)

Circle of Life Elton John

I Hope You Dance Lee Ann Womack

Walking in Memphis Marc Cohen

You Can Do This Hard Thing Carrie Newcomer

This Too Will Pass Carrie Newcomer

I am a God Nearby David Kauffman

Letting Yourself Be Loved (w/out lyrics) Gary Malkin

There’s Hope India Arie

Namaste The Kenedys

Remembering You Robin Spielberg

I Will Remember You Madonna

Love Can Build a Bridge The Judds

Be Still (chant) Simon de Voil

Lush and Richly Delicious . . . Yet Sad

Fall’s Golden Colors

What makes the season of fall so lush and richly delicious — yet also so sad and melancholy?

I am struggling with sadness this fall. I am loving the way the sunlight has shifted to a golden glaze on everything it touches. No more of summer’s glare. What is dying in my garden seems crowned with golden light that makes it glow despite curling edges and browning stalks.

I love the quality of the light and the rich colors of orange, yellow and red, and the way a single leaf can contain multiple colors of red, green, orange, purple. Yet as much as I want to enjoy this fall, I cannot seem to shake the sadness — and the depth of the sadness surprises me.

I am a person who is hopeful and rarely spends long periods of life in the doldrums. I don’t cry easily (at times I wish I did). Yet today in my therapist’s office I sat with tears trickling down my cheeks as I tried to explore this deep sadness that seems to have taken over me. When I came home and my husband said cheerily, “Well how was therapy?” I started to cry again and couldn’t find words to explain as he held me. I haven’t looked depressed or sad over these past weeks, but I have felt it . . . a blue-gray cloud that obscured even the lovely golden light I love so much.

Strangely, I am missing my Mom terribly even though she died 8 years ago. And I am missing my Dad who is still alive at 96 but who is not doing well. One thing I am missing is the confidence of their years of living that allowed them (especially my Dad) to reassure me when I came to him (even in adulthood) with dilemmas or hurts that I couldn’t resolve. He would listen compassionately and before we parted he would say, ” You will get through this. I know it is hard but it will be ok and you will figure it out.” I trusted that he was right because of his life experiences — and because he was my Dad.

Now I am the one who needs to offer such reassurances. Yet, I am struggling to believe in myself. I am carrying a lot of other people’s pain and struggles on my shoulders. I need to be my husband’s memory for appointments/ meds/bills. I need to be alert to and problem-solve my Dad’s care needs and medical issues. Lots more. It seems petty but I feel the responsibility (common to us first borns) to check on family and friends to be sure they are ok. Even if it is only on email or text, I try to write and reply to emails and FB posts as a way of checking in to see if others are ok. And what I crave and wish for is someone to check in on me.

I have been told that I don’t seem to need others. If true, I hate the aura that I must give off. I am not hiding my state, but I admit that It is often hard for me to talk about myself — in writing it is less difficult. I find listening — even listening deeply — to be easier than sharing what seems to me often less than the struggles or joys of others.

So I guess that shows why I am writing this. To be transparent. This fall I am sad. Very sad. I am missing the caring of my Mom and Dad, missing family and friends who used to check in with me, missing the planning for Thanksgiving and Christmas fun times together that no longer happen. I need to learn to trust that among family and friends I can open my heart and share not only the “good stuff” but also my sadness. I know it is true that family and friends would be there for me . . . I just need to take the risk and trust. And I need to trust that once again, as before, I will get through this. I will.

Friends

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She said it without tears.

“I’ve just been diagnosed with dementia. It’s been an awful week.”

We are five women friends who have met for over three years in this friendship circle. We have trusted each other with our life stories, have spoken traumas into a our shared space knowing they will not be carried beyond the circle, and we have treasured and affirmed the small graces we have learned to look for in our own and each others’ lives.

“It is early stage dementia,” she said.

I felt her words like a 25-pound weight in my belly. “I’m so sorry,” I said. The silence that encompassed the circle of friends was not awkward but felt like hands holding her with love.

She eventually told us what had led her to seek an opinion, the tests that were part of the diagnosis, and what she wanted to do over the next weeks to be ready — as ready as one can be — for what was to come.

I have not been able to let go of the image of her on C’s back patio last Friday. Clear eyed, her voice strong, but a slight tremor of fear as she talked about paperwork and downsizing possessions. I am praying for her to find strength and hope in each day as she journeys on this path. And I am praying for me to be brave enough to seek testing also — whether it is for a baseline level of functioning or a full-blown diagnosis of that which I most deeply dread.

Dementia runs in both sides of my family tree. I am terrified of losing my cognitive ability and feel dread every time I struggle to find a name or when I get distracted and miss a meeting or date I’ve scheduled with someone. I have come to accept that I can no longer multi task and that everything I do seems to take more time than before. But the thought of not being able to plan, follow a thought, or remember myself or others brings a panicky fear that is hard to dismiss.

I am grateful that my friendship circle can offer care and comfort to each of us. Each of us have busy lives and limited time. But the investment of time and trust and love is worth it. I am reminded of that each time I risk to share my vulnerability in this group. At times like my friend’s diagnosis it is friends who know you most deeply who are likely not to run away but to offer their presence, a pot of soup, or sit with you while you cry.

I am fortunate to have three friendship circles formed over various years of my life. I’ve known one circle for forty years and each of us have lived and changed and grown through what seem like many different lifetimes. A second circle meets virtually now because we are scattered throughout the States — but our bond is treasured and our monthly check-ins are prioritized on our calendars.

As a young woman I did not prize friendships and when I would move from one place to another friendships often fizzled due to distance. I cherish friendships now and have renewed several from long ago through the “magic” of the internet and Zoom and Facetime. Knowing someone deeply, trusting each other, remembering things said, laughing together, remembering shared experiences and seeing them with different eyes are too precious in this world to forego.

We need each other — especially in this divisive time when some around us choose to magnify and demonize differences. I believe it is our nature as human beings to long for connection. Friendships have taught me to value connections and to set aside expectations of agreement in favor of being patient and curious about another’s life experience. And when I need help to ask for it and to offer it when a friend is in need.

What will our friend need as the future unfolds for us all? We cannot be certain. But we will journey with her and she with us. God willing and inshallah.

Change and Transformation

While the word change normally refers to new beginnings, real transformation happens more often when something falls apart. 

Richard Rohr

Transformation

Change is inevitable. It is a necessary part of living — as necessary as shedding its too-tight skin is for the caterpillar.

The remarkable process of transformation begins with change but over time moves inevitably through three stages. Change is at the start and begins with losing something or someone essential (or at least very important) to us. With the loss we leave the familiar and enter an unknown territory — lost without a map to discern where we have landed or to guide us to back to the familiar. We want to “go home” but we have not yet realized that we cannot go home again. We don’t trust that we can find our way — either back to the familiar or forward to something new and survivable. When we are about to give up hope, there comes a faint glimmer of possibility — and if we move however cautiously towards it we find ourselves coming into a new space that beckons us to a more expansive life than we could have imagined possible before.

Yet transformation begins with pain — with the death of what served us well in the past but has constricted life in the present. Like the caterpillar that feels an irresistable drive to slip off its caterpillar identity and reveal the chrysalis beneath, transformation is not something we initially welcome but an involuntary entry into unknown territory. It often arrives with that heart-stopping “sound” of something precious cracking open, breaking. It commands our attention — we cannot ignore it. It might come as a life threatening diagnosis, a loss of a job we thought was secure, a sinkhole appearing under our home’s foundation, a pandemic shut down that isolates us from loved ones. When we realize what is being broken, our human response is to rush toward what is breaking open and fix it or repair it as we would a wound or hold onto it so it won’t go away. And that may work for awhile, but such “fixes” cannot hold the life force that is expanding beyond what contained it and will eventually open to new ways of seeing and being in our world. Transformation, in my experience, begins there, with that cracking open of something we have relied upon and thought was unchangeable but may no longer serve us — whether we realize it or not.

While we are in the middle of the transformation process, we cannot see those possibilities or new visions anymore than a 5 year old girl can imagine the pleasure and pain of a body that experiences pregnancy and birth.

What has given me hope in the midst of the many transformation processes I’ve experienced is knowing these three stages have always been part of whatever has at first felt like loss. From a long life filled with repeated experiences of the transformation process, I have learned I can trust that there will always — however long it takes — be a richer part of life after I have let go of what has been.

Letting go is always bittersweet and sometimes downright awful and wrenching. And I can truthfully tell you that there is nothing that makes that part easier — or that ends the longing to “go back” in some fashion to revisit what I had or who I was. But knowing that the process of transformation will inevitably open to something life giving helps me to slowly let go of what was and turn away from looking back. I can dwell in what is not yet clear when I trust that in the cosmic cycle of loss, chaos, and renewal there will yet be new life that I cannot even imagine. Even in death.

Hurricane Ida (don’t forget Fred)

Two hurricanes in two weeks. . .in eastern Pennsylvania??

OK. I know we didn’t get what one would typically call a hurricane with destructive winds over 100 mph, an an eye in the center, and torrential rain. But where I live in eastern Pennsylvania Hurricane IDA was enough of a hurricane to fill our rain gauge to overflowing (officially 8+ inches of rain) and damaging winds that left branches strewn about our yard.

But we were lucky. My nephew two counties away had hip deep flooding in his basement that swamped the efforts of three pumps and destroyed wiring, drywall, furniture and carpeting. Near his house — within 40 miles in different directions — three different tornadoes touched down and destroyed houses and life dreams of many families.

IDA delivered her deluge in our town on top of ground soaked to the limit by Hurricane/Tropical Storm Fred the week prior. A sponge that is full cannot take on additional water and only sheds the new torrent. And so it did.

If only we could persuade such superabundance of rain to go west and drench Lake Powell, put out the fires so delirious at the prospect of devouring dead pines and lived-in houses whose owners, like the ones not far from my nephew’s, had dreams for their futures that are now ash.

Today’s blue cloudless skies deny the whirlwind that filled yesterday with untamed winds and water that refused to comply with streams or drainage ponds. All summer here in eastern PA we longed for, prayed for, watched anxiously for rain that would soften and penetrate the baked clay soil that was my vegetable garden. Strawberries and raspberries fruited in profusion until mid-June when clouds no longer yielded more than thunder. Watering seeds and tiny plantlets with a hose was a futile gesture of spiritless hope without supplemental raindrops every week or two.

I suspect it is one more changing cycle born of climate change and an abundance of CO2. Spring showers . . . then drought for two summer months then . . . (dare I name it?) hurricane season in the northeast. Still, I know my family is lucky to have blue sky above, a dry house, electric power, an abundance of tiny yellow sugary tomatoes, and a cat that sleeps soundly once the torrent ceases.

Mr. B sleeping after a sleepless night

Holding the Truth Lightly?

There was a time in my life when I would argue my side of a question or fact until anyone with another point of view gave up and walked away. There weren’t many things I would hold fast to, but with those few ideas or issues, I was sure my view was the correct one . . . the ONLY correct one.

Oh, the certainty of that time of life. It embarrasses me now. . . thinking that I could know what was true and what was not, what was right and what was wrong, what was of highest value and what was junk.

I still have opinions and values and ethical standards now. But I think I am more reflective these days, less willing to attack with righteous vengeance the ideas and positions others hold. Now, don’t get the wrong idea about me. I am an unapologetic progressive who isn’t afraid to say what I believe. And I loathe the stance of the current Senate minority leader when he trumpets that his only goal for the next 4 years is to “100% oppose” the current administration in every bill proposed or budget proffered. That stand will take us down as a country if it holds.

But I am more opposed to that “100% opposition no matter what the policy is” stance because of the blindness to how we can strongly disagree with a person’s ideological stand and yet listen to their hopes, their goals, their ideas, and look for places we can agree so we can craft something together worth agreeing upon. In this divisive moment (I still hope it is only a moment), however, that may need a whole lot of retirements before working together across the aisle is ever possible again.

I choose to try to live a different ethos these days. I try to “hold the truth lightly”. I first heard this phrase when I joined the Episcopal Church. I was drawn to this denomination because it doesn’t require dogmatic beliefs but focuses on practices — being community, serving others, living and practicing love. The assumption is that we are all interconnected and are spiritual beings walking a human path. None of us has a better hold on truth than anyone else so we can learn from (not fear) others. And we “hold the truth lightly” knowing that life changes us and therefore our view of “truth” may change.

To live this way requires humility (which I have to work at), curiosity (approaching situations and people with wonder rather than mistrust), and a belief that we can find multiple interconnections that are lifegiving.

I’m not expert at living this way, yet it has become more natural as I’ve practiced it. And wondering about the world and those who live in it is much more joy filled than believing all is threatening.

Yes, you are probably correct . . . I’m likely a Pollyanna. Join me?

Windblown . . .

The wind last night, I am told, was sustained at 30 mph with gusts to over 50 mph. It seemed much stronger. It frightened me and I could not fall asleep until there were long pauses of calm. Then I would awaken again at the sound as the wind arose again like a locomotive bearing down on our small house.

The house is sturdy and it held firmly against the night’s fury — unlike a car in the wind. My sister and I sat in her car earlier during daylight, eating lunch together as we shared time and space . . . a luxury after the year of isolation with Covid restrictions and her immunocompromised status. But as we sat in the car we watched the sky become inky black and knew rain was to come. What surprised us, though, was the wind. It seemed to explode on us with a strength I had never seen. It blew the rain horizontal — I’ve seen that before — but blew so strongly that an older couple we saw crossing the parking lot in front of us could not take a step toward their car. Against the oncoming wind they could barely keep their footing except by grasping each other and leaning full weight into the blast.

The sound of such wind is what scares me. It is unearthly. Not quite a yell. Definitely not a moan. It is a steady fierce pushing energy that seems like it will never let up until it flattens whatever is in its way. As I listen to it in our bed in the darkeness, I am aware that I am holding my breath — or is the wind making it hard to breathe by literally stealing my breath away? The steady sound growls and grows. . .then changes to a slight whistle, then stillness until the next gust.

Wind is cleansing, blowing away the detritis of dead blossoms and winter’s dried, curled leaves covering the base of shrubs as protection from the cold. It is friend and housekeeper — but also an energy that will grow and blow and refuse to bend to the command to stop. When will it be still again?

I finally fall asleep. And when I awake to sun and light breeze, I breathe deeply of the earthy smell of spring . . . wondering why I fear a sound in the night . . .

Everything??

If God said, ‘Rumi, pay homage to everything that has helped you enter my arms,’ there would not be one experience of my life, not one thought, not one feeling, nor any act, I would not bow to. ― Rumi

Everything? Is it true that I have to consider everything as leading to you, God? Even tragic events? Yes, I can see how once I get over my shock or anger and begin to let awareness of sadness and grief seep in I begin to turn to you and either cry out for justice or just cry in your arms.

Even illness? Yes, I can see how when I feel alone in dealing with my own or another dear one’s diagnosis there is no where else to turn but to your listening ear. Even losses?

Earlier this week I was reading through the pages of a journal I had poured my heart into some 15 years ago. I had just moved from Reading to Memphis Tennessee to take a job as a chaplain and therapist at St. Mary’s Episcopal School. The new priest at the church where I had been a part-time associate for several years and which paid my benefits asked me to resign so he could choose new staff. With both my husband and I having preexisting conditions, we had no way to private pay the steep insurance fees that group insurance coverage had made more affordable. My private counseling practice was booming but ironically insurance reimbursements were decreasing for all mental health providers. I had less money to pay for escalating insurance costs. So I looked for salaried work with benefits — first in Reading where I lived, then looking wider in all of Pennsylvania, then anywhere in the states and Canada where there was work for which I could qualify.

I had forgotten until I read my journal how exactly work in Memphis had come about. All I remembered was the pain of my applications at age 58 being ignored, and the panic that was my constant companion. Then a journal entry jumped off the page. It retold what I had forgotten — how moving to Memphis, Tennessee, from Reading, Pennsylvania had happened. It was a convoluted tale of resumes and application letters lost in the mail and a reference not responding when they promised me. I had almost given up finding something, my energy flagging and fear waking me in the middle of the night with bad dreams. A person sitting next to me in a continuing education counseling workshop — someone I had never met before — heard I was looking for priest or counseling positions and asked if I had applied at St. Mary’s Episcopal School in Memphis. It was a progressive school she said and they needed a full time chaplain.

I had, indeed, seen the ad somewhere but it wasn’t of interest — too far away from family and my only daughter whom I felt needed me closer than Memphis, TN. But I took the comment as a sign and applied — they were almost done with their search but were intrigued by my application and the rest is history. We moved to Memphis in July 2010 just before the term began. Bill and I enjoyed Memphis and I enjoyed everything there and at SMES.

Everything?? Yes, in my life I have learned from repeated lessons that what is tragic, painful, and initially causes grief and loss may hold within it a hidden gift. Never, no never, would I ever have chosen the pain, trauma or grief in any of the multiple events of my life that wounded me. But now I know to trust that if I let the pain and sadness and struggle into my awareness I will be changed but there is something more. I will not shrink from feeling my feelings. I trust that somewhere on the other side of it there will be new growth — an opening to the Light . . . some small gift in the pain that will lead me toward new life even as my wound forms its scab of protection. If I wait with expectation and look for it, the Light comes — eventually — and comes with a gift every time.