All trees are blooming along my street.  All windchimes are chiming, also all birds are singing.  The front porch is now lovely in the morning and I’ve put up a curtain so the sun isn’t too hot on my face while I’m trying to read.  Why is it so hard to maintain stability. Someone who hurt you a long time ago appears on facebook and has photos with laughing people on beaches and riding in boats with rays of sunshine filtering through their hair.  You take them off your news feed.  Suddenly the blooms and the windchimes and the small red finch that perched on your fairy lights for twenty seconds matters less than the possibility that you are living the wrong life, that you are withering while others are thriving.  That all accusations were correct.

If all goes well, you will have compassion on yourself.  You will allow mercy to enter your heart, which means allowing yourself to live, and believing that you are living the right life.  As if someone had examined everything and at length looked up at you and said, ‘Alright, you’re doing fine, go ahead.’

I have to tell myself: The life you’re living is the only one that matters.  There was never an infinite number of possible lives; there were only ever a few, and of those only a very few were probable.  The one you’re in now belongs to you, and you are powerful within it.

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