Author: Alice Lundy

I am the woman who rises. I write about getting back up after life takes unintended curves. I focus on women’s issues, relationships, grief, health, and how to be a good citizen in these tumultuous times. Walking in the woods my favorite addiction. I also love hot coffee, cold beer, and big dogs. My memoir and I do the two-step in the agent-seeking process. Connect with me here or on Facebook or Twitter. Read more from me on Elephant Journal, The Good Men Project, and The Urban Howl.

To My Parathyroid Glands.

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Dear remaining parathyroid glands in my 58-year-old neck:

First, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about not realizing your two parathyroid co-workers acted like workaholics on amphetamines, long after you two recognized the body’s calcium needs had been met and exceeded.

Thank you for doing your job of shutting off when my calcium rose into an acceptable range.

But those rogue parathyroids kept going. There was a reason, although no proven cause.

You, mysterious glands, normally meet the measurements of a grain of rice. Although tiny, you parathyroids calibrate the calcium throughout the entire body: bones, teeth, blood, kidneys, heart, brain, and the muscular, digestive, and nervous systems.

This means your functions and responsibilities have been greatly underestimated by me and many others, even endocrinologists who diagnosed our condition: Primary Hyperparathyroidism (which has zero to do with the thyroid, other than location).

I didn’t even know you guys existed until about a year ago. Sometimes, we find something we’ve taken for granted is a critical component of a healthy system. You literally hold my life in your grain-of-sand-sized selves.

You can now wake up and return to work after your ridiculously long nap. Thank you for sleeping; it was the appropriate response.

It turns out, your coworkers were not on drugs. Also, it’s unlikely that the foods I fed or did not feed my body acted as an inciting factor to push your fellow coworkers into pumping calcium like they’d struck gold, then over-pumping parathyroid hormone (PTH), then calcium, on repeat.

As you know, with capable parathyroid glands, PTH and calcium work together like a seesaw.

But yes, your other two partners got wild and broke the damn seesaw!

I’m sorry that set you on the sideline, put you out of work, and left you inactive for years, maybe even a decade.

Those two had noncancerous tumors, adenomas. They were diseased. They swelled to the size of peas, although the size of the adenomas does not determine the severity of the disease.

Anyhow, because they were diseased, and because surgery is the only known cure for hyperparathyroidism, they were removed by one of the finest surgeons in the world and his stellar surgical team at Cleveland Clinic.

Now, after years of not knowing what was happening, suffering symptoms, and seeking help from doctors and healers, I finally know what was wrong. With the parathyroidectomy, the system has a 95% chance of returning to full health.

So, faithful remaining parathyroids, I write to you today with gratitude, apology, and a plea for you to wake up fully and completely to be the stellar parathyroid, right-sized team of rockstars you are. I ask you to return to work as you were designed and keep the PTH, calcium, and vitamin D calibrations intact.

You have the capacity. I will be patient as you return to work and get used to the new rhythm of regulating smoothly.

People say there’s no magic, but you, little gems are magic. You’re a too-well-kept secret to my health, the system regulators. Now, you’re given the assignment and opportunity to completely restore my bones and reverse my severe osteoporosis, according to my surgeon. Yes, you remaining parathyroids are powerhouses!

I love you for all you do, for the 58 years you’ve been doing your best to support and sustain me, and for the decade when your job was made so difficult by the others that you were pushed out of work.

I didn’t know! Like you, they were trying to do their job but their thermostats were broken due to the adenomas putting them in overdrive.

I assure you, as the doctors assured me. Those two diseased parathyroids are gone. It’s possible there’s a random fifth gland. Superior? Inferior? That’s the location, which I can’t recall. The doctors stand confident that if there’s a third remaining on the team, it’s healthy and will continue working with you in regulating the calcium and PTH.

Together, we’ll heal the body and my quality of life will feel more like sunshine and less like hail.

Thank you for staying, waking up, and expanding into your full capacity so I may wake up and fulfill my divine destiny, with energy, clarity, pain-free, and a whole lot less need to pee!

Faith, Hope & Love,

Your Para Warrior

Comparing Grief

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“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.” ~ Thomas Campbell

My most recent gigantic grief strike is six years old and staring at me from the rearview mirror, but I’m driving again.

Besides, he was just my boyfriend, not my husband. Yeah, I knew him for decades, but we were only Fire & Ice for less than two years.

So, is my grief less than yours–married 45, 33, or 8 years?

Did you lose a child? That’s the worst, they say. It’s one loss I refused the possibility of enduring, by not having children.

I watched the price my mom paid when my brother died. His death, her grief, cost her everything. I swore I wouldn’t let that happen to me.

We’re all dying, some of us slower.

After my brother’s number–27 was up, it took five years for the grief to consume my mother and earn the cancer label.

Slow death can feel fast.

I can’t compare grief, but I do. Don’t you?

I’ve learned sometimes death sticks around to wrestle with the living who sometimes surrender too soon.

A friend I knew briefly died recently. Mark had been chaotically fighting/striving/determining/surrendering/praying/believing/living in blackness. He jumped on the bridge of the in-between where he once was that he so loved and where he hadn’t yet found, but desperately desired.

He died fancy-foot dancing on the bridge of the in-between. The bridge broke underneath him and the other side called him home.

I’m walking on my own bridge of the in-between yesterday and tomorrow, standing on a few shaky boards.

Mark and I met at the beach. We spilled our stories about our lives back there, our in-between bridges, and uncertain tomorrows.

I felt I knew him, but I think he tried to give everyone that special feeling. He was a gregarious guy.

He had a pup when we met and our friendship cracked open like a coconut shell.

Mark invited me to join him on his bridge and even live in his condo. He said there was plenty of room, even with the puppy. We could help each other.

I wanted to leap. Leap into his big strong arms and be carried on the wind of his wild spirit.

I invited him to dinner the first night we met, but then told him I wasn’t feeling right.

I got scared. Scared his wild was going to a place I’d already been with a man who resembled Mark.

A man with a similar stature and nature. A man I loved, went into debt, and moved to Mexico with. A man I left empty handed and broken hearted, because the only chance I had of saving him was to leave him so he could save himself. He did.

When I met Mark and he so reminded me of Mr. Mexico, I felt joy. Joy because I loved, walked on, and it worked out.

We like to say, “It will be okay.” “Things will work out.” We say it to others and we say it to ourselves.

Sometimes things don’t work out.

Mark was just 45 when he died. I’m not sure how, although the last time I saw him he tried to tell me about his heart. I didn’t really listen, insistent he pay attention and take care of himself.

We shared secrets. We went to dinner, ate oysters, and laughed like I hadn’t in a long time. Uproarious, belly-ache laughter. It felt like being kids. Mark called it mischief.

Honestly, I thought he’d get his shit together. I thought he had more time.

I barely knew the man, unless you count instinct, ease, and intuitive knowing.

Still, death whispers to me. It doesn’t always work out. The hour is late.

Fuck off, death. Fuck the fuck off!

I’m not grappling with Grand Canyon Grief. Not this time. That’s for those holding Mark’s family and friendship lines. I ache for them.

I’m simply saddened, like standing on a dry riverbed that once roared.

Not comparing, just missing.

Dear Young Woman Trying to Take on The World:

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I see you. I see you when you’re scrappin’ and going wild against your family and calling for better boundaries.

You can’t yell up a generation. You are the future. And because of that, I have faith.

I witness you speaking truth to power and patriarchy.

You might call yourself an anarchist. Running from the Santa Fe art scene and your restaurant dream, determined to lose yourself in the City of Brotherly Love.

I pray you find yourself, your center, your internal, sacred, divine, feminine fire.

Because girl, you’re the next generation. You’re the result of and the reaction to patriarchy overplaying its hand.

You, my dear, are your father’s daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter, too. And, of course, your brother’s sister.

You will shape the future. Don’t let it destroy you. Keep shedding the bullsh*t and breathe deep into your heart, your pure essence.

Don’t let your masculine mind direct you through the toxic masculinity.

This shift is the feminine rising.

Young people like you flex your feminine intuition and ways of knowing.

Please, let the hardness, the stress, and the old systems crash. Let the misogynistic, power-hungry, greed mongers fall to the bottom of the pile.

Find new heroes. Find her in the mirror. I see her in your curly, dark hair, even when you straighten it. I know her in your obsidian-black eyes when you let them go wise and remember all that you know.

I see you reaching, extending, but not pretending you believe in perfection. You know better by virtue of being alive at this time in history.

You feel the shift because it’s happening inside your body. Young woman, you feel everything, but have been taught to resist, repress, and deny. Ugh! Patriarchy!

One day, in the world I imagine, born of women like you, feelings will be appreciated, experienced, and utilized like traffic signals for navigating the world.

When I was your age, my feelings raged like wild horses. When feelings can run free without being stifled, we can learn to saddle and ride them.

I see you, wild horse, bucking, young woman. It makes me proud and proves you’re not broken; you haven’t shut down or given up.

Although you wanted to and you probably will again on some bleak day. If, “F*ck you, life! I want to die!” is your go-to, it’s your kryptonite. At least, it was mine.

On that, I say: stay. Stay to experience the next chapter of your life. New characters. New adventures. New city. New you.

Enter the Philadelphia scene like the woman you intend to be. Leave your baggage in New Mexico.

Travel light. Be young and wild and free. Fall in love. With yourself, your work, and at least one hot-ass lover who touches your soul.

Have fun! Laugh! Play! Enjoy hanging with your friend.

Be in your full, divine-feminine essence. Stay present. Dance.

Be you. Embody yourself, young lady. Learn quicker than my generation or my mother’s.

Know: you are the answer. You’ve got this.

What Love’s Memory Gifts Me.

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“The song ended, but the melody lingers on.” ~ Irving Berlin

July 13, 2021

Wow. On this day 19 years ago, I married Prince Charming in Eagan, MN in a rose garden, before our our reception at the zoo, where we danced in front of dolphin tanks.

Yes, I had that love. The marriage contained me and sustained me until it restrained me and I had to leave.

Nine years ago today, I attended my 30th high school reunion in Los Alamos, NM and sparked a summer love that reminded me of the girl I’d been—playful and creative—and the woman I’d become—whole and soulful.

Yeah, I got that groovy summer love, as an adult! But the summer ended and so did we.

Seven years ago today, a man I called Fire held my hand and walked me into a garden wedding. When the pastor asked the guests to agree to support the couple, my boyfriend’s booming vow “We do” resonated internally like a key turning in a lock. After decades of friendship.

So, I leaned into the curve of life and rode our Crazy, Sexy, Cool Love. Later, I’d know it as Sacred Love—the thing each of us spent a lifetime craving and seeking. In our 50s, we created it, cherished it, and refused to bullsh*t each other.

Walls down. All in. Sexy Valentine’s Days and deep conversations about our dead mothers. Chicago. Louisville. St. Louis. Columbus. Lobster on the grill. Wrightsville Beach. Florida. New Mexico. Weddings. Friends. Families. Birthdays. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year’s. Chillin’ at his place overlooking the river. Being soothed by the smell of his cigars. Morning coffee at a small round table. His long, lanky, basketball-player legs and arms. Strong hands. A cross between Tom Selleck and Sam Elliott.

This man loved me. All of me.

So, he took a part of me when he died, unexpectedly, in his sleep. I needed to be with him. And he with me, even in the afterlife. It takes time to let go.

Here I am, full circle. New Beginning. New Mexico. The place I return to to find myself. The Land of Enchantment. Home. At a time on the calendar that registers memories of times when love reignited within me.

I remember. The fire of love cools but never dies, even if it appears as ashes.

We’re reminded: love lives inside us and attracts to us what is right for us in divine timing.

I am love’s common denominator in my life. On this day, and all the others.

How Shifting Our Internal Landscape Changes Our Experience.

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“It’s not what you look at that matters. It’s what you see. ~ Henry David Thoreau

What if we could greet others on their path—wherever they are and however they show up—from a place of peace? From a place of egoic surrender?

What if we don’t meet defensiveness with defensiveness, but with patience and understanding for another’s pain?

Can we, collectively, acknowledge that given different parents, siblings, skin color, education, culture, or upbringing, we too, would think, act, and believe differently?

Imagine playing with curiosity and shushing judgement.

Let’s try to recognize that most of the time, when adults react rather than respond, and especially when grown-ups overreact, it’s because the child in them doesn’t feel safe.

That scenario applies to the person in the mirror, too. Holding ourselves with compassion, kindness, and calmness when our egos want to throw blows invites an entirely new scenario, a more pleasurable interior embodiment, which radiates outward, with or without intention.

What if we invite love to stand witness with us?

Somewhere in time, we integrate our brokenness with our wholeness and stand in respect for our soul’s journey—and therefore, everyone else’s.

What if we give ourselves and others a break, just for today?

When a Woman Like America Wakes Up.

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“The devil often poses as a family kind of guy.” ~ Marianne Williamson, The Healing of America

America’s jaw tightened and clenched. She ground her teeth.

Her neck and shoulders ached with incessant pain from carrying her heavy, heavy head filled with dread and worry.

Her breath shallowed, then quickened out of control, on the edge of a heart attack.

Rage became her. She even flipped off truth a time or two.

Like many women caught in and committed to a bad relationship, America’s lower self took center stage. She didn’t have the answers or know how to be her better self. She questioned her identity and flirted with denial, as we tend to do when stuck in relationships not yet done.

Then, he crossed the line, threatened violence, and came close to choking her. She had marks on her neck and would never forget that look in his eyes as he hurt her.

His justifications, rationalizations, and blaming her crashed like a floor full of broken glass. America picked up the pieces. She washed the steps he’d taken to find her.

She’d tried her best with him, but lost herself.

America made a new vow, to return to her more soulful, peaceful self. Exhausted from the chaos of a relationship gone awry, she decided within the fear, before she had the answers.

Like I did, when I determined to be done with my husband, but still, I shaved his back that one last time. Change called me before how answered.

America released the relationship, the tangle of truth and lies, the betrayal of time gone by, with her standing by his side. But how?

She knew a man named Joe, an old friend, someone she could trust in her unsteadiness.

As I did in 2011. Considering divorce and desperate to determine my direction, I escaped for 10 days in Arizona at my friend Joe’s resort-like home. Under blue skies and sitting poolside, I redrew my boundaries and excavated my values.

Joe fed me, asked good questions, and listened. He asked if I could give my husband more time to change. I’d given all I could and tried in all the ways I knew. Joe’s girlfriend said my husband would be devastated. She knew him well.

Still, I voted for myself, like America did.

One day, in a new year, America’s shoulders relaxed. Smiles spread, even behind masks. Protective forces gathered. Honor filled the air of America’s lungs. She breathed in safety and her whole body swallowed gratitude like an elixir.

Joe stayed consistent and that made all the difference. He did what he said he was going to do.

America knew her path forward wouldn’t be easy, but like me, she craved authenticity. So, willingness became her, engaged her.

Finding myself suddenly single after investing a decade in a marriage while wanting more, better, different, little things took on new meaning. I walked out of my 500-square-foot apartment in St. Paul, MN. Sunshine sparkled on the sidewalk where poetry was carved into the pavement, on purpose, like a love note from the universe.

Poetry kissed me when I walked the bridge between yesterday and tomorrow.

She kissed America, too—in a way only poetry can do. This time, it wasn’t words on sidewalks. This time, sunshine spilled on the face of the future. America glowed as Amanda Gorman became her new best friend.

Listening to Amanda’s words, America thought: Justice. Just us. We, the people.

Fear descended from her head and heart, down from the frantic fibers of a frayed nervous system, through her blood and bones, confused cells and misaligned structure. Down, down, through America’s belly, hips, legs, and feet, fear fell into the hallowed ground beneath her.

America’s shoulders drew back, her heart forward, and her head high. Unexplainable giddiness coursed through her veins.

Nothing appeared the same, as if she’d awoken from a bad dream. She accepted the call to do hard things.

America still wasn’t sure how, but now, finally, willingness stirred within her. Like me, after years of struggle, America looked in the mirror and got greeted by her own beauty.

She cried.

That night, she attended a party with people she appreciated: Joe and Kamala, Bill, George, and Barack. Tom Hanks held her hand. Jon Bon Jovi and J.T. serenaded her.

America felt held. She felt safe. She felt happy. And the fireworks! LIT HER UP!

For the first time in a long time, America felt free, beautiful, and ready to begin again. Like she’d been waiting to exhale.

That night, America dreamed.

Why We Get on Our Mat.

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“No matter how much we try to gloss over that yearning with temporary fixes, it is still there, whispering the truth: that what we need isn’t another quick fix, but rather a rebirth, a whole life revolution.” ~ Baron Baptiste, 40 Days to Personal Revolution

Dear Yogi,

I see you. I hear your music.

Your mat holds you—regardless of

where you live, who you love, where you travel, or what wild animals you tame with your innocence.

Mother earth births you—swirling, twirling, tossing, turning, resetting, releasing, recalibrating

Your breath. Your balance. Your knowing.

Glitter in your eyes, song in your voice, groove in your hips.

Darling, you’ve got this.

And, ten thousand mats line up beside you.

by Alice Lundy

How a Big Sister Changes the World

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Dear Sister,

If I live to 192, I could never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me as a sister, friend, protector, companion, and an example of how to walk your path in the world while respecting, encouraging, and believing in your loved ones’ journeys.

You’ve shown me how to hold steady and how to let go when you don’t want to. Yet, you never told me, or even implied, that your way of loving, living, or grieving is the way I, or anyone, must emulate.

You live and love with open arms, even though those arms held your everything and fell empty. I know how broken you were when your husband of 33 years died. You climbed out of a steep, treacherous canyon.

I feel like I’m in Havasu Canyon following you up the switchbacks with a too-big backpack, boots with blistered feet, and no water.

You keep saying, “Come on, Alice. You’ve got this.” I’m muttering under my breath about how my feet hurt, I’m tired, and I want to sit down.

I haven’t tied my boots right, so I trip and fall, backpack of crap plunging me onto my hands and knees. I come up covered in dirt, like I’ve fallen face forward into an arroyo of mud and tears.

Although you’ve made miles ahead, you instinctively know. When I look up to see how far I have to go and possibly admit defeat, you’re there beside me, picking me up, sharing your water, and laughing about the mess on my face. You take a few things out of my pack and tell me I don’t have far to go now.

You say, “Just around the corner, the view is so beautiful, better than the Valle Grande!”

I know I must keep climbing, but I don’t want to.

“Is it better than the Great Barrier Reef?” I ask.

You laugh and say, “You’ll have to see for yourself.”

For 56 years, my dear big sister, you’ve helped me see the world for myself. Because of you, I envision a brighter, more colorful and expansive world, and I see the axis of my world spins into balance when shared.

Thank you for sharing the last seven years with me: opening your home, allowing me to be present in your intense grief (a great honor), witnessing you as an evolving, grown-ass woman mom would swell with pride for, showing me the epitome of partnership and generosity, believing in me when I doubted, encouraging me to risk and dive into the most exquisite experience of sacred love, being there for me when my beloved died and I fell deep into the canyon of grief, supporting me and my writing dream without ever insinuating quid pro quo, and always wanting me to be happy, but never at the expense of your own happiness.

I appreciate your honesty and directness, and I’ve become especially fond of the part of you that’s remembered how to play at life. Our now-gone brother Bill throws his head back in laughter, “Finally!” He’s been telling us, “Life’s a party!” and dances when we lighten up.

This summer with you, Sis—the one that lasted seven years—has been my favorite. Better than riding our bikes to East Park Pool as kids, swimming all day, eating green chile cheeseburgers, and getting our noses sunburned.

Today, I gather in my heart the gift of our shared experiences:  Australia, Pies & Pints, Jamaica, Florida Everglades, Bloody Mary Sundays, Outlander and This Is Us, walks around the neighborhood, you calling my dog “Wiggle Butt” and being there when she ate her first hot dog and took her last breath, trips to MI and time with your kids, road trips to NC, NM, and Nashville, beaches, bike rides, and beers, sitting outside at “The Pig,” writing and editing projects, movies and yoga, secrets and reflections of growing up in the 70s in Los Alamos, and 10,000 enlightening conversations helping me grow more whole, wise, and peaceful.

I tie a bow on these memories and wrap them in a blue sky, just the way you like. I decorate them with sunshine, and drop them into your heart with love, hoping they warm you and remind you of what a gift you are in my life.

Sister, you’re a star when my world is dark and the beach when it’s sunny.

I love you and being part of your world. Happy Birthday!

Enter Here.

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“It’s good to do uncomfortable things. It’s weight training for life.” ~ Anne Lamott

Come in, into the quiet center.

Sit in the darkness, the fear, the fucked-up reality of humanity.

Embrace her. In you. Then, welcome the light of stars in the dark night

and the rise of the sun in early morning. Let her shine on you and in you.

Feel her warmth on your skin. Lift your chin, your arms, your everything to the vast and changing sky.

Let her drama dazzle you. Walk in nature. Study the sway of tree and leaves waving in the wind.

You don’t have to save the world, but someone must.

Traveler from dark to light and all the layers in between, why not you?

Save her with poetry and kindness. No need to be famous.

Be you. Invite deep solace. Begin by going in.

Go in while there’s time.

Go into your body. Connect with your soul.

Get out of your mind and the mayhem.

Stay on your mat.

In your chair.

Home.

Drop into your heart and be the peace you’ve been praying for.

How I Dance with Grief.

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Grief is a force of nature, like the ocean. She can be calm, the waves gentle, just a noise in the background, as she’s been for me over the last several months.

Four years after my beloved died unexpectedly in his sleep, I drew another line goodbye. Kevin died March 4, 2016. That day this year, I visited his home state of Florida. I emotionally kissed him goodbye. I meant it this time!

By the grace of God, the gift of time, and sheer will, I released Grief’s grip on my being. I regained a sense of self, strength, and quieting of the incessant internal screaming. The ocean waves blew soft.

Now, it’s August. Grief threatens my calm. She’s not mean, but she’s present, reminding me my two truest soul connections in my 55 years on earth no longer inhabit this place. Queen Obvious!

My soulmate dog Phoenix, a lover in a Black Lab body, died last year after 11 spent glued to me. Of course, I grieved her, but I also used my brain to dismiss the pain since her death made sense in a way Kevin’s didn’t. She lived a full life.

Now, she’s back in my dreams, standing by my bed, staring at me with her caramel-brown eyes stirring me awake, nudging me into yesterday’s grin. But she’s not there.

Logic and grief get along like math and poetry. I know, that’s a thing, but not for me.

Grief aligns as the ultimate juxtaposition—the truths we resist and those we cling to.

My sister Jayne and I both started dating new men in 2014, after losing our husbands to death and divorce, respectively. In early May, I visited a friend of double decades and let’s just say, it was on. Walls crumbled, hearts opened, and Kevin and I became Fire & Ice.

In December of the same year, my sister went speed dating and met her mate, Dean. They danced and tripped over baggage and learned to step toward rather than away in ways that work for them.

Dean was in our home that day in 2016 as we all awaited Kevin’s arrival. The guys would meet for the first time. We had reservations at The Melting Pot. I don’t know if we ever cancelled.

I know I was worried when Kevin, king of communication, didn’t call and was late, so out of character. Dean said, “Everything will be okay.” He lacked my experience of death whispering on the wind before she’s announced. Everything was not alright.

The police went to Kevin’s house and found him “unresponsive” in his bed, with his bag packed, the sweater he intended to give me inside. One last surprise from the greatest gift God ever gave me.

I grieved the loss of my Fire actively. Like a mermaid, I dove to the depths and found the treasures. Four years later, “I’m fine” found truth in me.

Here’s the juxtaposition. Well, one of many. My sister’s love with Dean has progressed naturally. I prayed for her to find a special relationship again after Grief almost crushed her under the weight of losing her husband of 33 years. So, I celebrate her engagement.

This morning, sitting alone at the kitchen table that currently sits in the home I share with my sister, while she stays with her fiancé, Grief joined me for coffee.

Like a frenemy, she asked: What if Kevin would’ve lived and Dean would’ve died? You’d be planning your wedding. Grief can be such a b*tch!

No, I wouldn’t want that, either. Grief persisted. Look how happy Jayne is!

It reminded me of Kevin insisting, “Sometimes it’s good to put yourself first.” He said, “Icey, if there was only going to be one book contract, wouldn’t you want it to go to you?” I gave in. “Yeah, I would.” That’s not how it works, though.

Besides, this thought is different. It invokes shame in its existence. It screams to be suppressed. Jealousy over my own sister’s happiness? I want to spit it out like a cockroach on my tongue.

Still, I recall after Jayne’s husband died, she found it difficult to be in the company of other happy couples, even her children and especial my friends. Bittersweet is the taste of what you lost staring you in the face.

I’m a Scorpio. I turn into pain, not away. Truth nourishes my soul. So, here it is: I’m jealous my sister gets to marry the man she connected with in 2014 while I still grieve mine.

In my 20s, I would’ve suppressed that truth into the bowels of the earth and walked away. Or ran.

Maturity is the ability to hold two truths—or five. I’m honestly giddy for my 60-year-old sister getting to plan a wedding for the first time in her life. I’ve gotten to do it twice. Her first vows were spoken at the Justice of the Peace.

Now, my heart flutters with the same butterfly-joy Jayne emanated when I married my second husband—the sure bet. On that day, my sister’s Great-Barrier-Reef-blue eyes reflected what I felt in my gut.

Recently, my sister and I donned our masks (hello 2020) and ventured to her appointment at David’s Bridal. I stood on a stoop below, witnessing the dresses doing their number on my sister. Facing herself as the glowing bride in the mirror, she sparkled.

I took in the show and captured photos. Jayne tried on gowns until she found the one. A surprising smile rose from my belly into a balloon expanding in my heart with its string tied to my tongue.

My sister shown like a sunbeam. Our (deceased) mom’s presence floated in the air like perfume.

Yes, to the dress.

Yes, to love, wherever we find it within life’s juxtapositions.

Welcome present moment, with all your messy, authentic, bold, and beautiful feelings. I celebrate and anticipate Jayne and Dean’s upcoming spring wedding. You can bet I’ll be dancing.