Joy, deeply.

Last night:

In my mother's living room, I played Great Lake Swimmers', "Unison Falling Into Harmony," and danced around, finding out how difficult balance has become. It was interesting, dancing around by myself, on my own, discovering that it is nice to dream without expectations, without faces to put to dreams. I sang, danced, changed songs, listened for water boiling over in the kitchen, stirring mac and cheese noodles, calling down to my sister talking to her boyfriend on the phone.

Once, when going up to change to another song, some bluesy thing, Melody Gardot and Eva Cassidy, I noticed these clay hand prints my sisters and I made when we were young, and though it seems cheesy, and maybe it is, I put my hand in the print, and realized that once, I was very young. I was very young, once. I was small.

I have had very small hands.

I had this moment looking back into my memory, mostly composed of old photographs, thinking of myself back then, five years old, silly, restless. And I thought of how much my mind has taken over. How, back then, life was running. It was tossing about with my sisters in snow, in the yard. It was chasing the dog, and exploring color and new stones on the driveway. It was bending down to see. It was getting real close.

Looking back, seeing myself as this separate small person, helps me develop this compassionate view of myself. I have grown. I have been through legitimately painful experiences. I have survived, and I have learned joy, deeply.

And I have met people who are willing to bend near to me, to take me in, whatever I am, and love what they have in their hands. I love them, too. They are in my grown hands, and I am proud of them.