She fled an eleven-year abusive marriage. They had a daughter. She took her with her. 

Modesto might has well have been another country. 

She responded to the right-hand star command. 

She relapsed when she was exited from the shelter for smoking downstairs, while her child was upstairs.

Which was not allowed.

She had been warned. 

She was reminded -- repeatedly -- that she was unworthy. 

She did her best. 

Finding the job, the car, the apartment. And yet ... 

She was reminded.

She was not enough. 

She wrapped her hands around the stranger's waist -- full chain. 

Because she had to begin again. 

Somewhere. 

Why not here? 

Why not now? 

She just needed that hand. That right-hand-star hand. 

New student college orientation with my middle daughter. The push/pull is painful. For both of us. She walks ahead of me, but I'm not allowed to leave. She channels her stress at me (bullseye), but I'm not allowed to react.

When I parry--not a good strategy--it escalates. 

When I burst into tears (I'm losing a limb, for God's sake) while she's just trying to take a shower, it's not ideal. 

When she allows tears on Day 2 because she skipped lunch because because she had to be "on" for 12 hours after four hours of sleep after canceled flight (re-routed from IND to ORD into four-hour drive into 2am arrival) because advisory appointment on her own because a zillion people she doesn't know because humidity hair because ALL THINGS utterly foreign because mom and dad got divorced because life is f'n scary and hard and thrilling because mom brought the wrong clothes because away from sisters for the first time in 18 YEARS because loss and gain and growth and pain ... 

because life. 

Elizabeth Gilbert was not pulling punches last night.

In response to the first question -- Why this book, why now? -- she said, matter-of-fact: "I wanted to write a book about a woman whose life was not destroyed by her sexual activity." 

With that, she had my attention, along with several hundred people (99% female) gathered at the Sebastopol Community Center, despite the sweltering heat, to catch some of her magic wisdom. 

And indeed, wisdom was dispensed. 

Pearls like ... 

At the end of the day, we are all just walking ourselves home. 

Suffering is universal; your task is to turn your suffering into something. 

Who would you be without your life? (A nod to Byron Katie, a source of Gilbert's inspiration, along with Glennon Doyle ) 

more tk ... 

​She's an authentic-relating facilitator who hails from Berkeley. (Where else?) She sat in my living room last night across from my Voxer posse and me. We are seven women who spend an hour or two a day "voxing" (read: keeping each other company during our commutes and otherwise, sharing things that shall remain in the VoxerVault forever, till death do us part), and several weekends a year, give or take, supporting each other, SEEING and HEARING each other, cementing sisterships (coinage mine,  a la friendships). We've cried, individually and collectively. We've told each other things we haven't told our partners. To say nothing is off the table would be an understatement. We've laughed uproariously. We've become a tribe of trusted advisors, board members, soul sisters, processing in real time, our complicated (to put it mildly) lives. In July, our families will go river rafting. Someday, we may carry each other's urns. 

It's been a long time coming, and an interminable decade. I'm deeply grateful for these amazing, imperfect, high-feeling, formidable, brilliant women.

There's a common thread. We've all survived ... and lost ... something. Or many somethings. Grief comes in many forms. We've got them covered. 

Our facilitator — whose ex founded Voxer, no joke and no coincidences, as in life and NorCal — split us into dyads and/or triads, gave us "sentence stems" to finish (e.g., "What I notice about myself when I'm with you is ..." or "What I love about you is ..."), had us look into each other's eyes and talk for minutes, uninterrupted. 

"First, share an 'I notice' sentiment, followed by an 'I feel' sentiment, followed by an 'I imagine sentiment'," she counseled. 

We obliged. Crying, hugging, connecting, relating.*  We felt all the feels. (:  Sans wine!

There were epiphanies, new "shares," and deeper connections. We confirmed once again that women are, from start to finish, complicated creatures. In our case, complicated, surprising, fallible humans who show up for each other. No. Matter. What. 

"You're such an important part of my life," said my friend, through tears. "You're not just a friend but a daughter, sister, mother to me," said another, not knowing this was possibly the most welcome thing a female friend has said to me in ... a long time ... at exactly the right time. 

Earlier in the day, we did a two-hour hike at the gorgeous Helen Putnam Regional Park during which we did an exercise called "Drop the Rope." In Drop the Rope, per the therapist peeps, you let go of the shit you've been carrying that no longer serves you. 

My list is long. Or was long, I should say, because now it's cleared. In the rear view. 

Going. 

Going. 

Gone. 





 
​



* In short, my husband's worst nightmare. Fear not, he was in Tahoe at a friend's 50th -- they brought their man-means-of- connection -- their road bikes.