I am thankful for my feet. They who carry me up mountains, across fields, into nature's solitude.

I am thankful for my hair and how it responds to its own free will. Never predicatable, never held back, untethered by society's standards of beauty.

I am thankful for my heart, that grows stronger every time it shatters. For its ability to continue beating, continue loving, even though it has lost far too many battles to count.

I am thankful for my mind. A complicated mess of logic, compassion, and imagination that refuses to ignore the wishes of the heart. Instead reveling in the task of co-piloting.

I am thankful for this body. How it connects, feet, to heart, to hands, to brain, to soul. Encompassing this living being of myself, in beauty and in pain. Refusing to quit, refusing to stay knocked down. Always rising, like the splendor of the sun regardless of yesterday's weather.

October 24th, 2018. A year and a day since the last time I saw my mother, talked to her, hugged her.

My sister reminded me to look at the moon tonight. As I spread apart the shades, my mouth fell and I sank to my knees to pick it up. Relief danced across the surface of my skin. I cried for all the beauty and love I had ever experienced in my life. So much of it stemming from the woman I was raised by. It was the first time in a year that I recall feeling only joy and gratitude. The ever present dagger wounds, for once, weren’t tugging at the empty holes where blades had entered. The pressure around my throat, the constant feeling of someone slightly choking me, was absent. I basked in the glow of the moon and the immense sense of lightness and peace within my body. For however brief a moment, the weight I carry upon my shoulders was lifted. For the first time in a year I could remember all the incredible gifts my mother shared with me without drowning in the notion that she would never share more. It was enough. It was more than enough. Thank you harvest moon for digging up and bringing to the surface a feeling I was sure had died with my mom.

My mom taught me gratitude.

An art most dabble in. My mom spent her days becoming it’s mastered artist.

My mom taught me a ferocious love that spanned time, mistakes, distance. The fiercest of fires that could never be put out.

My mom preached the present moment. Be here, be now, be here. Now.

My mom taught me gratitude.

My mom taught me the power of forgiveness. How to uncurl the claws of the past so they couldn’t imprison my future.

My mom taught me early morning moments of joy. How to ease coffee’s bitterness and sip it as the world awoke around her.

My mom taught me beauty, letting her hair grow silver. Never apologizing for it. Speaking softly to the wrinkles that formed as we became reckless teens, heartbroken adults. Boasting age as proof of a fully-lived life.

My mom taught me to laugh with my head thrown back, cackling into the wind.

My mom taught me gratitude.

My mom taught me to stand tall amidst raging storms. To awaken the winds within my soul. To howl back louder.

My mom showed me beauty in letting things go. The power, strength, grace in giving away things that wouldn’t serve me.

My mom guided me towards friendship with nature. I learned how to hold hands with the rivers and speak to the trees.

And even though my heart hangs heavy with grief, drenched like laundry on the line I know life is still beautiful.

My mom taught me gratitude.

Sometimes the hardest challenge is to just sit. To just be. For someone who has always felt slightly uncomfortable, unaccepting of my inner fairy, it is stress inducing to sit with her and allow her to play. However, I also hate the cadet who wears a tight collar and straight legged pants, stillettos that pinch the toes and cause a rigid walk. She often takes control, telling me when I can speak but mostly reminding me to hold back. The sad girl in the corner is always there, rocking back and forth, pushing at my eyelids so the tears will fall. I am astounded by this little child’s ability to wrile the cadet. They battle daily, as I wait on the sidelines to falsely congratulate the winner. I am not sure where the real me has gone but I suspect she has split into these three females and can only return if I am to make peace; combine their forces. Perhaps if they danced together under the moon, each taking their turn in the center before shifting gracefully to show off the talents of the others.

The thought of allowing them space to be, to accept that they are me and I am them, is daunting and laughable. When I picture them dancing, I invision more normal poeple coming to take my crazy brain away. Yet ignoring them does no good. They each have the nagging ability to remind me of their existence.

So today I allow them to dance. The fairy spreading her wings as her dress flows round and round. The cadet takes the fairy’s hand and not so much smiles but lets go of a frown. The little girl is hesitant because sadness and dancing don’t commonly exist. Her movements are slow as she raises her body off the floor and puts down her teddy bear. She walks to the center as the other two move back, allowing her enough space to dance in the light. Then the three Me’s hold hands, they swirl around, and laughter echos. They swirl until they become a flash of green light and tornado back into my heart. I open my eyes and for once I allow them to just be.