I am not here to be admired. I am here to feel. To ache. To be changed by contact with the world, not insulated from it.

Gaining my composure is never a gain. Nothing of real value is lost when I sob in the veggie section of the grocery store, a stranger’s gentle hand resting on my back. I, like the avocados, can measure my readiness by my softness. Life is ripe. Sweet and perfect and almost over, for all of us.