Hurricane Nate is ruining Rob’s birthday. There won’t be any sun, for sure. His cake is ready to be picked up, but I have no idea where we will eat. Two people a celebration does not make. We are not good at simulating it, either.

Anxiety is something I am quite good at. I don’t even have to try. (That is somewhat of a joke.) I try to get rid of it, but it is not something easily conquered. If I were a proper nondualist, I would not be admitting such a thing, now would I? No, I would glide right over it. I would parasail over the top of it while glibly spouting phrases about not being real.

I know I am not real; that is the reason for the anxiety, you dullards. Okay, okay, somebody talk me down from the ledge. I am tempted to jump into the void just to see if I would sprout wings. Or maybe not.

This is turning into a note that could turn sour or triumphant or just fizzle out. Maybe you will quit reading. But maybe you won’t. See, I don’t know. I don’t have any guarantees. I don’t know a damned thing.

Vicki is a force of nature; I have never been able to control her. She is volatile and deeply peaceful. She is courageous and a big chicken. She is loving and conflicted about it. She keeps throwing out the baby with the bathwater. She never turns loose of the hot skillet. She is hilarious and boring at the same time. Know what I mean?

Celebrations hurl me into the brick wall of guilt and shame. Why can’t I pull them off like some others do? I have stuffed all my grief into a piñata, praying that someone doesn’t break it open and die in an avalanche of congealed tears. Like rock candy, they can be deadly.

On the other hand, I know the solution is me. It cannot be found outside of myself. So I am going to apply it right now. Are you with me? Say yes. Because you need to apply it, too. Here it is: I am not my thoughts. This whole note has come from my head. The splinters of thought hurt. I can’t pick them out one by one. No, I have to walk away from my head, have to go over the edge and fall into the heart.

In the heart lies my healing. And yours as well. We must say hallelujah over the whole mess. And when we do, we rise.

Vicki Woodyard