This morning, awake at 5:45 a.m., after stoking the wood stove, igniting the gas beneath the tea kettle, pouring a pink glass of grapefruit juice, I turned on the Kindle Fire to check email.
There, sitting so innocently in the in-box, appeared a note from John. He misses me in the Internet world, he says. You and your prose are missed. I sigh from my heart and would have wiped away a stray tear–except it’s still too early. I’m missed.
The part of self that always longs for acknowledgment wants to jump up and down beside a snowbank in delight. Someone misses my writing. Someone loves me. Hallelujah!
The part of self that doesn’t care about acknowledgment raises its eyebrows at the inner child but doesn’t chastise her. I’ve been learning so much in the last five to six years about honoring all parts of the self. Until then, it’s hard to honor all parts of the other person.
But, jeeezsh, John, it’s only been a week since I wrote here at Lake Superior Spirit. That’s not long, is it?