Gazing Into The Mirror, I Saw Myself

At Forty-two, I Had Never Done Anything That Took My Own Breath Away, And I Suppose Now That Was Part Of The Problem--my Chronic Inability To Astonish Myself. I Promise You, No One Judges Me More Harshly Than I Do Myself; I Caused A Brilliant Wreckage. Some Say I Fell From Grace; They're Being Kind. I Didn't Fall. I Dove.

You Can Tell Which Girls Lack Mothers By The Look Of Their Hair.

I Worried So Much About How I Looked And Whether I Was Doing Things Right, I Felt Half The Time I Was Impersonating A Girl Instead Of Really Being One.

Soul. The Word Rebounded To Me, And I Wondered, As I Often Had, What It Was Exactly. People Talked About It All The Time, But Did Anybody Actually Know? Sometimes I'd Pictured It Like A Pilot Light Burning Inside A Person--a Drop Of Fire From The Invisible Inferno People Called God. Or A Squashy Substance, Like A Piece Of Clay Or Dental Mold, Which Collected The Sum Of A Person's Experiences--a Million Indentations Of Happiness, Desperation, Fear, All The Small Piercings Of Beauty We've Ever Known.

The Monk At St. Meinrad Took His Hands And Placed Them On My Shoulders, Peered Straight Into My Eyes And Said, ‘i Hope You’ll Hear What I’m About To Tell You. I Hope You’ll Hear It All The Way Down To Your Toes. When You’re Waiting, You’re Not Doing Nothing. You’re Doing The Most Important Something There Is. You’re Allowing Your Soul To Grow Up. If You Can’t Be Still And Wait, You Can’t Become What God Created You To Be.