Fifty-six…good God.

In a better place these days, though. Clarity, as always, comes from the inside out.

The frigid air this week helped knock it loose. The snow this morning was a reality check. The miles I put in my shoes today made me feel better.

“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

The serenity prayer helps the addict in all of us, and make no mistake, we are all addicts. In some way. In similar ways, too.

Hardship and discomfort are pathways to peace.

Acceptance leads to contentment.

Becoming a pillar of strength is the result of resilience, and only that.

The serenity prayer has become more poignant and meaningful to me over time.

I’m addicted to comforting myself with food. I’ve used food like a drug my whole life. Born from the need to stuff my feelings down deep inside—to numb painful emotions—residuals stemming from a trajectory-shifting event during childhood. What happened is something I cannot change. How I treat myself is something I can.

The ebb and flow of the “food thing” for me is something I’ve accepted. It’s something I’ve actively worked on changing since my mid-40s. I’ve been successful. I’ve lapsed. I’ve done the work and I’ll keep on doing it, but despite my best efforts, the demon lurks and always will. I’m in a healthy place these days though.

Numbing stressors is the human way.

Learning to resist the easy fix that fixes nothing is the hardest lesson in life aside from figuring out who to trust.

I decided back in November not to fall into the reactive news cycle death trap. “Doing just great” on that end. It’s impossible to ignore.

What’s currently happening in the United States is unfathomable. A daily sucker punch to the throat. Feminine energy is rising, though. They want us to believe the opposite, but women will save this country.

Clarity.
Acceptance.
Change.

I wrote a prayer for myself, to myself. My little old banged-up and bruised-through and emotional roller-coaster self. My self, who strives to be seen and heard and loved just like you.

Even at 56.

The stars shine, the earth moves, the moon is out, and I love you.

The rain is relentless, the hill is steep, I’ve slipped a few times, and I love you.

I am learning again, how to let go, how to hang in, how to move on, and I love you.

My tears are fresh, my bleeding heart beats, my lungs fill, my anger rises, my patience wanes, and I love you.

I’m longing to be still, quiet my mind, breathe in what’s good, and I love you.

I’ll paint a flower or a bird or Yosemite or a Birch tree, I’ll squint and sigh and close my eyes, and I love you. I love you so much for having the courage to try something new.

I love who you are, how you’re changing, how you’re rolling along, how you’re healing, and I even love who you’ve yet to become. I love how you give—the gift of yourself, your kindness, your goofy sense of humor, your self-awareness.

Mistakes.
Forgiveness.
Serenity.
Clarity.

Love is pure. It’s selfless. It’s a gift meant to be given without ego, without exchanging it for a pound of flesh, without guilt or broken bones.

Love is acceptance.

Served in abundance with a side of mercy, even to ourselves.

And so I lay myself bare for the picking…like a fresh fragile tulip, like a prayer on the wind, and I love you.

I love you as you are today.

~