I have spent a large chunk of time this year drinking away my time, my bad thoughts, my troubles.
I have explored more signature drinks at local coffee houses than I thought was possible on my budget. Lattes may not be a necessity, but they are cheaper than therapy.
If I were honest though, the caffeine and chocolate didn’t soothe the cracking dried life. The drink didn’t heal the walking desert that I had become. I needed more than an triple shot of espresso to shed this layer of dead skin.
These women who sat across the tables and on couches and on stools were the true elixirs.
They were reflections that reminded me of what was true. They were the flashlight when I wanted to hide under the blanket. They were calm and they were strong and they were sweet.
They reminded me they were on my side, and when I couldn’t remember what my side was all about, they could tell me. They could describe my world with such detail–the result of years of observation.
When I wasn’t sure how to connect one dot to the next, they picked me up and drove me to the next spot. They paid when I couldn’t.
They hugged me tight. If I needed a distraction, there they were. Dinner, come on over.
Stephen Arteburn was right, healing needs community.
They could be the keeper of my boundaries–the electrical fence of my mind. Gently but effectively reminding when I had wandered too far from safety–from my center.
So I’m raising my mug to all of you lovelies who were the duct tape, white out, comfy pants of my year. Ladies, you more gracious than dim lighting in a dressing room when bathing suit shopping. Cheers to you all.
(And for those of you not pictured above, I apologize. Post some photos on Facebook already! Or remind me to take my camera on our next coffee date…oh coffee, who’s coming and where are we going next?)