The following blog entry is a collection of journal entries in response to the Mountain Ancestors Grove’s 2018 Twelve Nights of Solstice program exploring the Hero’s Journey. These short presentations and guided meditations will each be made available for replay at any time. 

TWELVE STAGES OF THE HERO’S JOURNEY: ONE MAGPIE’S TRAVELOGUE
by J. Webster, Inaugural Chief-of-the-Folk

More so than parts 1 and 2, these entries rely heavily on the context of the guided meditations provided on the Mountain Ancestors Grove Facebook page. The writer strongly encourages you to watch or read these meditations before reading these entries.

PART 3: NIGHTS 7-9

NIGHT 7: APPROACH

There is a scene in my favorite movie, the NeverEnding Story, where the characters discuss a terrible trial the hero must pass in his quest: a magic mirror that will show him his true self. When the hero’s companion mutters “That’s won’t be too hard,” another character responds, “Oh, that's what everyone thinks! But kind people find out that they are cruel! Brave men discover that they are really cowards! Confronted by their true selves, most men run away, screaming!”

I have faced this mirror before in my life. I expect to face it many more times. I earnestly hope that each time I face this mirror, I will be rewarded with the difficult truths about myself that I may not be facing properly, the discipline to face my Shadows, and the vision and wisdom to see my best and truest potential self 

Today, I see…

I have promised honesty to myself, but there are parts of myself and my Shadows that I hesitate to expose to an anonymous online community. I offer you my honesty, Dear Reader, but I am not sure that entitles you to full disclosure of all my thoughts on these meditations. 

I will say this: I have met many of my Shadows. Many of them have names, names that are an intimate part of my religious practice, and I hesitate to subject my practice to your uninformed scrutiny, to your possible ridicule. Is that hesitation the voice of the Shadow in me that wants to preserve your good opinion, that wants you to think me wise and reasonable? Or is that just good judgment and discretion? I admit that I am not sure… For today, I will try to walk that line carefully, but I will need to address that question more fully for myself in the future. 

Today, I see my Shadows of fear. I see the part of me that wants certainty, wants a “Plan,” because maybe disaster will be less painful if only we put in the effort ahead of time to prepare. I see her grasping, clawing hands, straining to hold on to some illusion of control or certainty. She clings to smoke and calls it stone, and shrieks in pain as it evaporates from her grasp. She… she is in such pain, and she seeks to make it mine. She seeks reinforcements by trying to share her pain and her fear, hoping that four terrified grasping hands can wrest back the control that two hands cannot find. She claws as my back, crying out for my attention. I name her, and she fades.

I see my doubts. My masochistic epistemologist, who argues that whatever belief hurts me the most must be true, and that I would be a coward to ignore her accusations. She cites all my mistakes and failures as precedent, cherry picking support for her claim that I cannot achieve the goals I consider setting. “You are too shy, too quiet,” she says when I ask about what leadership and service roles I may explore in Guam. “You have failed for so long, you window has closed,” she says when I ask about writing full time or seeking a clerkship. “You are too old to begin, your body has rotted in front of a desk for too long,” she says when I think about setting competitive physical fitness goals for Guam. On and on… she has so much to say. But I name her, and she fades.

As these Shadows fade, I see the face of my vanity glimmer briefly in the dark. She wants her turn. She remembers how it felt to know that she was young and beautiful, that she was a “favorite” among her classmates and peers, and perhaps most of all, that she was correct. She remembers how to critique those around her, how to secretly believe she was something better. She remembers how much she can get away with, how much she can take.  I see her whenever I silence my doubts and fears, wondering where the line of her territory lies, and whether my doubts and fears are the only things keeping her in check. For today, I name her, and she fades.

Other Shadows flit through my mirror, but they are not for your eyes. 

I hope that you will respect what I have chosen to share with you, Dear Readers. Thank you for listening. 

NIGHT 8: ORDEAL, DEATH & REBIRTH

I know the transition that is coming for me. This identity and this stable life I have built in Colorado… like all things, I knew it couldn’t last forever. Sometimes, our identities slowly devolve from entropy, gradually revealing something new. But other times… other times there is a Dragon. Maybe our Dragon is an unexpected event, one that sweeps down out of the mountains without warning to wreak havoc on our life. Maybe we see smoke in the distance, and like Ben’s hypothetical paladin, we grab our broadswords and charge across vast distances to face the challenge. In any case, our Dragons give us a unique opportunity for complete rebirth. Because no one faces a Dragon and comes away unscathed.

My Dragon had wings like storm clouds, beating humid air against my skin in ceaseless waves. My Dragon stalks the canopies of the jungle, slithering and coiling, stealing bird eggs and leaving silence in her path. My Dragon’s neck twists upon itself before unwinding to lift its swaying head, waiting to strike. Her round, glassy eyes do not blink, but their vertical slits narrow to slivers as I approach.

I tell her I am not here to destroy her, but that I will not lie down and be her passive prey. 

I tell her that I know she has more power to change me than I have to change her, but I see her chains, and I know that it is my choice to free her, to face her unrestricted strength. I tell her that I know I still have choices, even when I cannot know their consequences.

I tell her I do not know what she is. Not really. I tell her that I don’t know what she will do to me, only that she will do what is in her nature to do, and that I will no longer be what I am now. 

She speaks to me…

I tell her that I know that I can trust her to be a Dragon. No more, no less. I understand that she will do what Dragons do, and when she does, this “Jane” will end. The Dragon guarantees no more than that. We are in agreement.

I knew this was coming. I have had opportunities to turn back. No one has forced me into this position. I am here because this “Jane” is ready to die. She is ready to peel away, like the hull of a seed or the husk of a cocoon, and let some new life walk on in the body she leaves. She is ready to be a memory, an echo, a source of strength for the next Jane on whatever paths she chooses to walk. 

With my talisman in hand, with the guidance of my vision and my Shadows silenced, I release my Dragon. We understand one another, and I am ready.

She exhales.

NIGHT 9: REWARD, OR SEIZING THE SWORD

In Campbell’s monomyth, the Hero is rewarded for facing the Dragon. Sometimes the reward is tangible and external, like Jason and the Golden Fleece, or intangible wisdom, like the Childlike Empress’s new name. Scott Pilgrim is an amusing example of a meshing of the two: an internal reward made, by the magic of metaphor, into a tangible sword. 
I have not given much thought since I started these meditations to what my reward would be, what treasures I would earn from my Dragon. I had no explicit goal in mind, since my main goal was to fully explore this “journey.” I know that narrative has power, and that building a narrative understanding of our identity and our lives can have a profound effect. This is not limited to our spiritual or religious practices; narrative therapy and even narrative medicine  may indicate that conscious narrative-building can have a beneficial effect in healthcare and therapeutic practices. 

Sometimes, the power of narrative is a double-edged sword. Some stories we tell ourselves empower us, while others lock us into destructive habits, victim mentality, or baseless mistrust. This is why it can be helpful to check in on the stories we are telling ourselves, making sure that they are the beneficial stories that we want to be feeding through repetition, or the damaging ones we need to respond to or rewrite.

All of this is to say that I embarked on these meditations with only the journey as a goal. I expected the story itself to be its own reward, and gave little thought to what my prize might be. But I think I found it anyway.

I will not tell you what I found in my visualizations. That part of my experience is mine. But I will say that it was something I had misplaced over the years, familiar, but restored to me now as a new, changed thing. I think I know what it means.

I have a passion for writing, and the good fortune to have that passion paired with some talent at it. Or at least that was what I used to think, that my writing skills were due to “fortune.”  I used to make beautiful things with this gift, but I’ve redirected my energies over the years, and my writing practice has become almost nonexistent. 

My writing practice. Essentially, that is what came to me in this journey. I don’t think I have ever given enough credit to the fact that I was good at writing because I practiced. I was writing all the time. Daily journaling, 8k words of fiction a weekend, random rambling passages in the margins of my notes at school. The time that I now kill on Netflix, YouTube, and sundry other “enter-drain-ments,” I used to spend writing. Most of the writing was nonsense, never to be read, but I was still doing it. I didn’t think of it as practice. I thought of it as a necessary exercise of my identity, a behavior that fed and even defined my soul. That practice is part of what I have abandoned over the years, and even when I came back to writing, I only ever wrote with an audience and a purpose in mind. Because I was no longer practicing in private, the perceived high stakes of every public piece of writing paralyzed me. 

I promised myself when I began that I would waste no time on regrets for lost time. I can only move forward with the knowledge, skills, and discipline that I have now. 

I know what I need to do with the reward of this realization: I need to have a disciplined daily writing practice. And I know that I can do it, because part of my prize is the memory that I have done it before.  

The following blog entry is a collection of journal entries in response to the Mountain Ancestors Grove’s 2018 Twelve Nights of Solstice program exploring the Hero’s Journey. These short presentations and guided meditations will each be made available for replay at any time. 

TWELVE STAGES OF THE HERO’S JOURNEY: ONE MAGPIE’S TRAVELOGUE
by J. Webster, Chief-of-the-Folk


PART 2: NIGHTS 3-6
NIGHT 3: REFUSAL OF THE CALL

My husband and I had a great conversation about this step of the Hero’s Journey. He was concerned about how this narrative arc seems to require that the “Call to Action” come from an external source: Obi Wan Kenobi offering Luke his father’s lightsaber, Gandalf on Bilbo’s stoop. He complained, “Why can’t heroes just know that something needs doing and go do it?” There was then an eloquent little aside about how a paladin should have charged past Gandalf and Bilbo at the beginning of The Hobbit, brandishing a broadsword and shrieking “I’ve got this! Onward!” But I can’t do his storytelling justice here, so I’ll move on.

In response, I reminded him of this step, of the “Refusal of Call.” This step is skipped in many stories: Harry Potter accepts his enrollment in Hogwarts immediately, and the Pevensie children take readily to their roles as monarchs of Narnia. But when it is included, I think it adds something valuable to the story. Even when the initial call to action came from an external source, when the hero initially refuses the call, this gives the hero an opportunity to reflect on their decision, letting them hear and respond to an internal call instead of an external voice.  Luke realizes that the threat he has been called to face will be a part of his life regardless of his decision, that he cannot just opt out of the consequences of refusing to help. Bilbo, after much reluctance, finds internal motivation to pursue his quest. 

There are reasons that we establish and hold to Ordinary Worlds. They are familiar, and often safe and comfortable. For these reasons, the voices of fear and caution in our lives, both internal and external, are likely to object to our leaving the Ordinary World for an adventure. Fearful voices speak of the dangers of the unknown. Rational voices speak of all the value and security we will be leaving behind. Even our egos might step in, crying out that “This is enough, what I have and what I am right here is enough, and what we have here is mine! Why must I let go? Why must I change? Why must I grow?” A story that fails to at least tip its hat to these voices, to at least recognize that these are predictable and rational reactions to being asked to divert from our status quo, is presenting a less relatable hero. Because these feelings are an important hurdle for anyone facing change to overcome.

Hesitation need not be the end of the adventure. Fear doesn’t need to end your story. At all moments on our paths, we have the choice to pause, even to change direction or to turn back. We will always experience periodic echoes of our doubts, and our doubts will invite us again and again to refuse the call to adventure. In each moment, we are forced to reassess the decision to stay or go, to wait or proceed, to flee or fight. Perhaps we will miss specific opportunities by refusing a call to adventure, but it is important to remember that we still have the option of accepting the next call, or of responding to our own internal call. 

There are calls I have refused, out of fear or doubt or practicality, but I must let those moments go. I must forgive myself for my decisions and recognize that the story is not over. There are so many paths that remain open to me, and even many that are now obscured may be cleared with the right tools and enough initiative.

NIGHT 4: MEETING THE MENTOR

This one is difficult.

Our meditation tonight asked us to look ahead, to look to a mentor on the other side of the threshold of seed and soil, a mentor who makes ready and fertile the Other World we are preparing to enter. But because of the literal and physical Other World I am preparing to enter in my own life, it is difficult at times to believe that I am not leaving all of my mentors behind me. 

My legal ethics professor in law school (whose name many of you would recognize) once gave an entire lecture on mentors: how to find them, what selection criteria mattered, how they can serve your legal career. He asked us how we felt, while facing such a dire job market, about choosing employers who were poor mentors, whose ideologies or practices we disagreed with or disrespected. I remember telling him that maybe, with the world as it was, we needed to abandon the dream of finding respectable mentors, and that instead, we should just try to be “better than our mentors.” 

This is not to suggest I have not respected the many people who have taught and supported me throughout my life, who I might say “mentored” me. I have been blessed with four amazing parents and even an extended family who have always offered me support and kindness, who are thoroughly invested in my success, and who build me up in all I do. With exceptions so few I can count them on one hand with fingers left over, my academic teachers have been truly spectacular (including the incredible high school chemistry teacher who had very kind things to say about my last post and may be reading this one too ☺ ). 

However, during law school, I found it harder and harder to find people with whom I felt mutual respect. I had a hard time finding people whose values and goals I could share, while I had no problem at all finding many examples of people whose conduct and principles I had no interest in emulating. The legal community was full of a plethora of characters who served better as cautionary tales than as role models, and even when I found people I respected, I had made myself so small and afraid that I escaped their notice.  It is difficult to accept mentorship when you feel unworthy of the offered support.  So, by the time my professor asked us that question, I had become a little bitter about “mentors.” I had begun to believe mentors were at best a networking tool, at worst a fanciful pipedream. 

But I found them. After much questing (which is a story for another day), I found mentors, both in my religious practice and my community.  I have allowed myself to accept this mentorship, finally remembering that I am worthy of their lessons and support. The support and gentle guidance I have received here, from the land, from my gods, and from my human teachers, have reminded me of my own strength. 

Our meditation prompted us to ask who waters our garden, who gives us what we need to thrive when we leave the Ordinary World. I see their faces. I know their names. I have been so well fed in this garden, and I overflow with gratitude for my time here. My roots are strong, healthy, and ready for transplanting. 

NIGHT 5: CROSSING THE THRESHOLD

“Who will I become?”

I thought that would be my BIG question on this 12-Day journey. I have moved long-distance twice before, casting aside my past and completely upending my life. Each time, I lost the communities and stability of my previous home, and each time, when the dust cleared, I felt like I had become an entirely new person. When I left home for college, I felt like I had shed the last vestiges of childhood someplace on the tarmac of Bradley Airport, and I landed in Arkansas with a new boldness and a more vanity than was good for me. I felt like I had emerged from my introvert shell, and my new confidence felt decadent. I loved it, and I thought that when I moved again, it would feel the same way. It didn’t work out quite like that. My move to Colorado for law school shook all the pieces of my life out of place again, but when they settled this time, the settled off-kilter. It was like getting off a ship and waiting for my land legs to come back, but they never did. Instead, I teetered about for years, clumsy, apologetic, and skittish in all social situations. It took me years to reconstruct myself into something functional. 

I have wondered what this move will be like. I have wondered how I will fit into a military community, into a conservative community, into a community of mothers and much younger women. I have wondered how my routines, health, and relationships will evolve. To sum up, I have wondered how the move will transform me this time, and like a shaken magic-8 ball, what new personality will rise to the surface when the chaos stills.

I was surprised that a different question came to me as I clawed my way through the dirt. I found myself asking instead, as I stood in the blinding light of the Other World: “Who do I want to become?” 

This is a better question. This question suggests that, unlike thrown dice, I have some agency in what will happen to me when I land. It suggests that my wishes matter in this, that they may have an effect on my destination there.

So this is my question moving forward on this journey: “Who do I want to become, and what should I do to get there?”

NIGHT 6: TESTS, ALLIES, AND ENEMIES

Hmmm… part of this meditation really resonated with me. When asked to consider whether the people around me have dispelled or fed my fears (i.e., the shapeshifters), the people in my life were very clearly divided into two camps. I thought of some of the plans I’ve considered for Guam, and the completely different responses I heard from two types of people in my life: the people who enthusiastically encouraged my ideas, and the people who were very quick to point out how unrealistic my hopes were. Why do I keep people like that in my life? I can identify them readily, and still I make excuses for them and continue to listen to their…nonsense. 

I also knew immediately who my Trickster is, the person whose goals and behaviors are so askew from my own that he always forces me to face a new perspective, for better or worse. I am glad that I will have ample opportunities for him to play his part in my life for the next few months.

I wonder who the Herald will be for this next chapter of my life. I wonder if the structure of the Air Force will play a part in this role. It seems like for the next few years, whenever a call comes down from on high that announces a new chapter in our life, it is likely to come from official documents created by over-worked under-paid government employees. I don’t think out Herald will have a specific rank (at least, I don’t have a “herald” in my rank insignia flashcards), but I’d bet there’s probably an acronym for it. 

My allies are easy to identify. I have spent the last week in touch with family members who are helping and advising about the move, about housing, about selling my car. I am surrounded by people who want to wish me well, who want my mailing address for sending cards and letters, who want to schedule goodbye outings and skype-dates while I’m away. I am so blown away that only six years ago, I was so lonely here that I wanted to move to Alaska next, because, and I quote: “If I’m gonna be sad and lonely, I might as well do it someplace dark and cold.” That’s where I was. That cold, dark place, believing that I was completely undeserving of new friends. 

What. Utter. Poppycock.

I notice that my tone for this entry is different. Maybe it is because, on reflection, my journey looks so bright and full of allies and protection. Maybe it is because I found a talisman I did not expect, and it warmed my heart. 

Maybe it is also because I have glimpsed the Shadows that haunt my path: among them is a part of me that, like the students in my course, want you, Dear Reader, to think highly of me. The part of me that believes that more words, smarter words, the right words, might prove my wisdom (i.e., my worth) and thereby earn your respect. This is the part of me that would keep me silent for risk of using the wrong words, the words that would reveal me as naïve, as shallow, as… some third disparaging word that this Shadow would REALLY like me to think of because adjectives sound best in sets of threes. 

I know that soon, I will need to address this Shadow, and others, but for now, my little rebellion against that Shadow is to share this entry as unedited rambling, as my honest reflections as I sat on that boulder in our meditation. 

The following blog entry is a collection of journal entries in response to the Mountain Ancestors Grove’s 2018 Twelve Nights of Solstice program exploring the Hero’s Journey. These short presentations and guided meditations will be livestreamed on the Mountain Ancestors Grove, ADF Facebook page at 7pm MST every night between 12/19-12/31, and will each be made available for replay at any time. 

by J. Webster, Chief of the Folk
​
Part 1: Nights 0-2
Night 0: Preparation
In the same way that any point on the universe can be designated as its center because the universe extends infinitely in all directions, I’d suggest that any point in our lives can be declared as the beginning of a narrative. Any step can be the first step of a new story, a new exploration, a new adventure or goal. Here we stand, at that threshold, holding in our hearts and hands the spark of inspiration, of intention, the catalyst that has the potential to light our path and carry us forward. In any given moment, we have only to set an intention, to take that first step, and our journey may begin.

I’ve been looking forward to these videos, but I know they will raise some complicated feelings. I know that I will be tempted to dwell on all the times that I have failed to take initiative to pursue the things I’ve wanted in life, all the times I have refused to even begin a journey. I know I will have to fight off regret for all the time I’ll decide I’ve “wasted.” It is easy to imagine that if I were only hard enough on myself, if I could only find the right cruel thoughts and words to inflict upon myself as punishment for my “failings,” I would finally do all I need to do to become a better person.

But it doesn’t work. Years of self-punishment have failed to effectively deter all of my flaws and mistakes. And if I want to be the vicious pragmatist that I claim to be, I should abandon this ineffective strategy. I owe it to myself to be gentle with my mind and feelings, guiding them away from self-criticism and self-harm. Instead, I owe it to myself to experience what is here, what is happening in the moment, and when appropriate, to make decisions about what is just ahead of me.

Therefore, I wholeheartedly accept the agreements we have been asked to make before we begin. I agree to be honest with myself in this process, and to give myself the gift of these written entries, the gift of an honest travelogue of my experiences over the next twelve days. I agree to reflect upon each step of this arc, engaging with these lessons and applying them to my life. And I agree, with humility and trepidation, to declare myself as the protagonist of my own story for the next twelve days. I agree to accept the role of “hero” in my own life, to be invested in my own success, and to grant myself the same attention, confidence, and compassion I would a heroine in a favorite book.

These are my intentions. Now, let’s begin.

Night 1: The Ordinary World

On this longest night, I reflect on where I am in my life and in the world. I reflect on my present, my status quo, this stagnant foundation from which the first steps of this journey will be taken. And in this moment, I feel like my entire “ordinary world” can be crystalized into a single image: my fracking desk at work. I have spent three years sitting at that desk, stagnating in its silent white walls, even my eyes unable to focus more than 10 feet away. Hours bleed by there as page after forgettable page scrolls past on my computer screen. Weeks have passed without even making eye contact with my co-workers, when my only social interaction all day has been my husband. This picture of my Ordinary World has dominated more hours of my life than any other image, and this part of my life has me hungry for change. This self-imposed prison cell of silence and stillness I hope to shatter with a total upheaval of my routine life, with movement and initiative. I accept that this is where I am right now, and I see that I am ready to leave this part of my Ordinary World behind.

But my Ordinary World had brightness and warmth as well. I have built a strong and beautiful life here, a home and a community. I have the hard-won foundations of a reliable job, a safe home, a supportive marriage, and rewarding, enriching friendships. Colorado was slow to warm to me, but has welcomed me thoroughly and has supported me as I rebuilt myself. She has welcomed and protected my roots, allowing me to grow upright and strong.

I accept that I must leave this place, that I am about to be uprooted from my Ordinary World to reestablish a life and home in a new place and a new community, both alien to me in so many ways.  But those are thoughts for another night. For now, for this longest night, I will nestle into the cocoon of a life I have built here in my Ordinary World, appreciating the comfort of the safety and stability we have worked to build. I will curl up in bed and drink in all the beauty in the little banalities of my peaceful present moment that I so often ignore: the familiar shape and sounds of my sleeping husband beside me, the padding footfalls of our cat as he walks across me and the soft weight as he carefully tucks himself between us, the weight of the blankets I have crocheted to keep my softly purring family warm, and the gentle motion of my own breaths, all so often taken for granted. And if my shame arises for too often ignoring these beautiful moments in favor of dwelling on my regrets of the past or my anxieties for the future, I will forgive myself, and gently, kindly, return my awareness to the present.

For tonight, I will remember that one must build a house to have a home. I have done that work, because in this moment, tonight, I am Home, body and soul.

I will also remember that the present moment is always here, and I always have the strength and skill within me to make myself present, and to make the present Home, again.

Night 2: Call to Adventure

Last night, I put aside my feelings about my office and my job. I wanted to focus on the good and the warmth of my Ordinary World, the comfort I have found in the life I have built. I wanted to focus on my appreciation and gratitude for my present moment. But tonight, I think I have to face those white walls head on.
In many ways, my office is my seed. My office is a shell of safety that I earned after a terrifying and demoralizing job hunt. It was the reward for all my fearful efforts, a reward that proved I had found stability and I would be able to use my incredibly expensive degree to contribute my share to rent. Those white walls confirmed that the legal community had decided that my talents and labors made me worthy of trusting with complex tasks, and most importantly at the time, worthy of a salary. I equated my job with my “value,” taking it as proof at last that I was a competent, functioning adult.

Like the shell of a seed in winter, that office protected me from the self-loathing and fear that had defined my unemployment, giving me a safe space to grow and heal. But my growth in that room has stagnated. My eyes ache to focus beyond its featureless drywall, and my back and hips ache from sitting at that damned desk. I feel trapped there, my eyes roving from corner to corner as my thoughts fires frantically from task to task—not with the urgency of a deadline, but more often with the desperation of a caged animal gnawing at its own fur.

The work still presents some challenges, but more often than not, the most challenging part of my job is the emotional labor of effectively answering student questions while de-escalating students in crisis. Unfortunately, these are students whose egos (not unlike mine) are tightly bound to their ability to be correct without my help. Students who often resort to aggression and veiled personal attacks to avoid facing the possibility that they have misunderstood a rule of law. And to help them learn, I first have to help them accept that they may be wrong.

I’m good at it. Very good at it. But I’m good at it because I once believed I had to be good at it. Day in and day out, I use the same de-escalation skills that I mastered in moments of fear for my physical safety to write appeasing emails to angry future lawyers. Sometimes, I am forced to intersperse the content they need to understand with pandering, apologies, and groveling, seasoning it with enough of my humility for them to be able to accept the correct substantive law without spitting it back in my face. But it hurts. It hurts to know that my skill in this part of my job comes from my long history of a willingness to sacrifice my dignity for someone else’s comfort.

This part of my job is familiar. These are skills I implement well. But this work reinforces fears and habits that no longer serve me, fears and habits that keep me small and meek. And this emotional exhaustion is no longer helping me grow.

It is safe and familiar in this seed. This seed protected me against the winter. But I feel the discomfort of this seed. I feel myself pressing against its walls, bruising myself against this restrictive space. There are so many protective systems in place in my life—the walls of my office, the complacent stagnancy of my routines, the deference in my voice—that no longer serve me in the way they once did.

I am a seed, and I am almost ready to sprout. My growth, and perhaps even my survival, depend upon it.