Of late, my answer has been, “No, but I know I will be.” And in the last few days I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m more OK than I give myself permission to be, so I’m going to start trying to acknowledge that, if it makes sense. My life is rarely fantastic, rarely horrible. Rarely mountaintops or burning bushes, rarely quicksand. I live in the densely forested hillsides, where I have to do a lot of bushwhacking and most of the time can’t see over the next ridge. Since January of this year, this has been especially true, and due to the wisdom and love of some really good teachers I am comfortable with the notion of being uncomfortable, and secure in the knowledge that this too shall pass.
But not alone. I am not and cannot be about this business alone. Occasionally a text will land, and although there are lots of ways of saying it, they all come down to the same thing: there are people who care about my well-being, and they care enough to give me a ping and share a little chunk of their lives to let me know. That is a gift. You are the ones who are holding space for me while I hold space for my mother and our family. It is an awesome responsibility, one I am grateful for, and any time I doubt myself one of you shows up and reminds me that I will always have what I need to get it done. Yeah, you. You know who you are.
I’m going to dream big, and let on that my greatest wish is for all of us to come from France and North Carolina and New York and Colorado and California and Maryland and Nebraska and Oklahoma and Ireland and Florida and Africa and Asia, and just break bread together. I would like for all of you to know each other, so I can share your wonderfulness around with the other wonderfuls. That would be one of MY great mountaintop experiences, to see all of us in one place, if only for an afternoon.
Because you have all held me, and I will never forget you.
Here’s a nice article about holding space. I hope it does for you what it has done for me.