Wrestling with angels
I woke up Saturday to this ominous message from one of the companies that tracks my bodily functions.
In light of recent geopolitical events, the apocalyptic nature of the image was certainly striking. I do wish they’d learn to read the room.
Nonetheless, my friends at Oura were spot on: I was feeling like utter crap. I struggled through the day with a sore throat and a general sense of ickiness. It’s probably allergies, I surmised, and a shower before bed and a decent night of sleep would set me right.
Alas, those did not set me right, I suppose in part because the decent night of sleep did not materialize. I’m at a season in life when sleep does not come easily. I wake at 2 or 3 a.m. in a state of heightened alert. My temperature fluctuates between extremes. My mind refuses to relax its grip on all problems past, present and future. Honestly I’m amazed at what I accomplish every day in light of my body’s rebellion.
Anyway, I did manage to sleep a few hours, but in those hours, all of the crud that had been bothering me from the throat up settled into my chest, and I awoke sounding like Kathleen Turner with a nasty cold.
But you know what? A sick weekend day is a gift. It forces you to slow down. It excuses you from having to talk much. It gives you time to reflect.
I reflected a lot today, friends, about the trajectory of my life, about what I need to do next, about what I want and whom I want to help. And I thought a lot about the people who’ve helped me — the angels who’ve visited me in times of need.
They are mostly women. They are my fairy godmothers and sisters:
My first piano teacher, who saw my potential, encouraged me and gave me structure.
The women who kept our household running when my mom had her stroke.
My second and third piano teachers, who helped me find new depths to my practice.
The Tulsa girlfriends who shared my humor and wonderment, and who will always feel like home.
My first managing editor, who had the foresight to assemble the posse, four women who continue to show up for each other 20 years later and I dare say always will.
My colleagues at the agency, who became fast friends, ardent supporters and among the most important people in my life.
The artist who showed me how adversity can fuel transformative beauty, and the mentor who taught me to negotiate (they are the same woman).
The managers who took a chance on a weirdo who was way too into VR headsets and AI glasses.
The peers who’ve noticed, who’ve encouraged, who’ve inspired with their quiet confidence.
The old journalism friend who intuited my desperation and reached out just when I needed her.
The ones who held me steady during illnesses and deaths.
The ones I tell about the dark stuff. And the ones who check in after I do.
The ones who were brave enough to step away and into their own light.
My many angels. My many blessings. I can only hope to be so good.