My husband and I got a sitter this morning so we could both write. I have been writing these past three days about my grandmother's death, and have no idea if my story will speak to a general audience, but the doing of it is powerful and redemptive. It brings my grandmother back into my present life in a way memory alone cannot do. She becomes bright and substantial once again, and she blesses my endeavor.
Tonight at yoga, I meet a substitute teacher waiting at the door. At first I am disappointed (for I love my regular teacher) but I tell myself, as that teacher would tell me, not to judge, to give her a chance, and I am well rewarded, for she speaks of doing with your life the thing that makes you feel even and joyful in yourself, and this, of course, is how I feel when I write, then take a break to be with my family. It is the balance of these things that makes me happy, that lets my inner light shine, that makes me feel I am acting with the proper gratitude for this life I have been given: using my true gifts, learning to stand tall and be myself, and speak my truth.
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