I just walked home from my final elementary-school back-to-school night. The moon grinned wickedly from behind a smoky haze, and the air was heavy with the peace and quiet of a Thursday evening. Crickets sang softly, porch lights warmed the path, and the neighborhood tucked in freshly bathed children for the night.
I felt loving and loved.
Last night I found myself perched in my attic, rummaging through an old box of treasures that stirred up more than dust around me. I found memories from 6th grade – the same grade my son is in now – that took me back to that place where innocence and wariness collide with a celestial explosion that rocks worlds and results in a period of massive confusion.
And I remembered exactly how I felt.
Thirty-something years later, I’m still struggling with self-love. It’s getting easier, perhaps largely due to the patience of special people who have crossed my path and have loved me until I could learn to love myself. Sometimes a simple act of kindness feels like a warm embrace that rocks me gently and kisses my forehead. When another person believes in me fully, I lose myself in the surprise of it – like the contented connectedness that comes immediately after a wonderful sexual experience.
I feel loved.
This song speaks to me lately and brings me to tears every time. I can’t find words to express how grateful I feel for the enormous love I have been given. It’s seeping in to all of those remote, scary crevices that have been hiding in darkness for a very, very long time.