Women Who Write - First Time . . . .

 

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Last year, I joined a women's writing group.  Each month a different member gives a prompt to use if we don't have any other projects we're working on.  In June 2024, the prompt was

First Time . . . on my own                                                           © Lori Allen, June 2024

I graduated from high school in May of 1974. I was an average student who could have been an
honor roll student if I’d have dedicated as much time to my academic life as I had to my social life.
My older brother and sister went to college and the same was expected of me. I was struggling to
know what I wanted to study.

Most people assumed I’d be a teacher if I went to college. My sister, my mom, my grandmother and
all her sisters, and my mother’s idol, Laura Ingalls Wilder, were all teachers. My mom assumed it was
a done deal. “Lori,” she’d say, “you’d be best working with very young children. You need to get your
elementary certification, but concentrate on kindergarten or grade one, no preschool.” My sister’s
track was to be an elementary principal and my brother a shop teacher for junior high. Mom’s plan
was that specific.

When I said I thought I’d like to get a BFA and work with art or music – perhaps a music librarian or art
historian, my parents wouldn’t hear it. “You need something to fall back on in case something
happens to your husband,” my dad would remind me. This husband, an unknown entity, didn’t want
a wife without a marketable, money-making degree.

I put off filling out all the paperwork needed in 1974 to be accepted to Southwest State College in
Marshall, Minnesota – the college of choice for my siblings and only one I’d even considered. One
night shortly after graduation, I was sharing my education dilemma with my coworkers at the Trimont
Community Hospital. I’d been trained, with one other girl my age, to be a nurse’s aide at age 15.
“You’re not going into nursing?” the director of nursing asked in horror? “All our aides have gone on
to nursing school! Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want to be a nurse when I was training you?”

“Uh,” I told her in my mind, “because I was a fifteen-year-old kid whose mom said yes when you
asked her if she thought I’d like to be a nurse’s aide and I thought this was a better job than
babysitting or walking beans.” I smiled sheepishly and whispered, “I don’t know.”

Beverly Borntrager wasted no time in contacting her alma mater, an ancient hospital in Minneapolis
with a nursing program, and asked them to reach out to me. Two days later, the administrator of the
program was sitting at my parent’s dining room table and I was signing my education over to a
nursing program. I hadn’t even realized I was the best nurse’s aide Mrs. Borntrager had ever trained
until that guy from Mrs. Borntrager's alma mater  told me so. I was set to start school in their summer session which started June 24, 5 days after my eighteenth birthday. I’d be moving into one of the school’s dorm type apartments on June 23. I had 10 days to get ready.

I wrote a check from my personal checking account for a deposit on the tuition and a deposit for the
apartment - $200 each. That took quite a dip out of my nurse’s aide earnings. I wondered how I’d
pay the rest of the tuition or the monthly $200 rent. 

I found that out on June 21 when my dad came home at lunch time and said, “let’s go kiddo. Your mom said I need to take you to the bank.” I sat at a table Kal Skaalen informed me of interest rates and deferment and default. I smiled and nodded like I understood every word he was saying. I’d add an “I see” or “of course” or “great, thank you” when I felt acknowledgement was needed. I left the Triumph State Bank with $17,000 in debt and a few hundred more than that in my checking account.

I rode back home in my dad’s turquoise truck with Farmer’s Union Cooperative painted on the side.
We had the windows open and he hummed “I’ve Got a Home in Glory Land” the ten or so blocks from
the bank to our house. He pulled up in front of the house, didn’t even pull in the driveway, reached
across me and opened the door, “I’ve got to get back to work.” 

I walked into the house - dazed. I felt like I was back in our little country church in South Dakota. I had no idea what was going on. My xperience in asking questions in that religious community didn’t go well – I was chastised for not having faith, for questioning God. That experience informed the way I processed other things in my life as I was growing up. I’d learned to not ask questions and just go with the flow. The flow for now was to hang out with friends these last precious days, work as many shifts as I could, and pack for my move to 1880 Irving Avenue South in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Jump ahead to Sunday, June 23, 1974. Mom and dad drive me to the cities in the turquoise truck, the
back filled with suitcases and boxes of necessities, most of them that went back to Trimont as the
apartment was fully furnished. While mom helped me unpack, she told me that I needed to pay my
tuition bill when I got to school the next day, and that I had to be REALLY careful with spending. She
also said that she and dad would put $50 in my checking account every month for groceries
and spending money. They both gave me hugs and told me to write, not call (long distance phone calls were only for emergencies), to let them know how things were going.

Mom did put $50 in my account in July 1974. That was the last deposit she ever made. I didn’t
mention it. She didn’t mention it.  I knew better than to ask my dad for many reasons.  Who did mention similar things were my classmates. They were so open about their finances and brainstorming ways to make money while in school. Selling plasma, cashiering at the local Lunds, riding the bus to Target during the holiday season to restock shelves, being hair models at Christians, an upscale salon in the neighborhood were all popular ways to make ends meet.

For the first time in my life, that I knew about, I was eeking by. Looking back, I am certain that this is
how my parents managed their money. I continued piecing together finances during school and in
the first two years I worked as a nurse. My fulltime job was working for a surgeon in his surgeries and
then in his office. I also picked up shifts in the ER on weekends and nights. I also joined, then started a band. The money I made in my night and weekend ER shifts was replaced by the money we earned as a band.

Then, I got married. To a person who was good at managing and talking about money. I turned
everything over to him. No more side hustles. No more worries, other than his constant telling me I
was spending too much money. My financial world was secure until we divorced 20 years later.

It was back to the hustle, back to the side gigs. Facilitating workshops, flipping a house or two,
reselling found antiquities, serving on government committees, writing grants . . . even today, as a
retired person with a decent monthly income, I’m always working a side hustle. Today feels a lot like
summer of 1974, the first time I was an adult – without the urgency of making rent or buying all the
accoutrements needed by nursing school students.

Castle

Edinburgh Scotland May 2018

Like the day before, and I'd soon discover, the days following, the Edinburgh morning was chilly, damp and gray.  My seven year old companion, Mica, uncharacteristically held my hand tightly as we slowly wandered the unfamiliar streets.

"Where are we going, Gramma?"

"On an adventure!" I say in my most confident grandmother voice.

"That means you don't know where we're going," Mica knowingly reminded me.

We continued walking through the residential streets of our apartment to the busier streets leading into the heart of Edinburgh. We found ourselves in the cobblestone plaza outside Usher Hall, an expansive area with steps to hop on and coffee and cocoa vendors to chase away the chill.

"Cafe au'lait and hot cocoa" I ordered from a friendly looking young woman behind a vendor cart.

"This is not France," she scolded me.  Then with a bright smile said, "you will like the flat white more than au'lait."  She took a minute to explain the difference, and suggested a healthier juice and toast option for Mica.  She was so pleasant, asking where we were from and what were we wanting to see in Edinburgh today.

"Where's the playground?" Mica asked.  Our vendor gave intricate directions - half a kilometer north to St Cuthbert's graveyard, cut east through the main graveyard path to the Bungydome Playground.  Mica was hopping and clapping, "let's go, let's go, let's go."

Ten minutes later, and one spooky walk through a centuries old graveyard, we were at the playground - at the base of the backside of Edinburgh Castle.  Mica ran and played and made friends with some younger children who were there.    

I sat on a bench and watched Mica.  There were other women, about my age, sitting together talking.  One woman in particular kept looking at me and waving.  I'd smile and give a small wave back and act busy with my phone.  Finally, this woman walked over to me and asked, "what granny group do ya belong to? Or are ya new here?"

"Pardon?" I asked, confused.  

"What group darlin'?"  I didn't have any idea what she was asking.

"We're not from here."  I blurted.

"Aye.  No ya not."  She then explained that she and the other 5 women were a granny group.  I learned that these informal groups are abundant in Edinburgh.  Grandmothers watch their young grandchildren, ensuring they get 3-4 hours of fresh air every day.  

These women bring knitting, sewing, books, paints, blankets and pillows with them to the park.  They are incredibly "hands off" with their grandchildren, allowing them to work out differences and take care of each other when they fall or cry.  The grannies were very amused with my obsession with my granddaughter - pushing her in the swing, giving her a snack, having a water bottle, giving her a snuggle when she ran over to tell me she'd hurt her knee.

"Is she your first grand?" one woman asked.

"You're only?" suggested another.  It didn't take long for both Mica and me to feel self-conscious about my hovering.  By day two, we'd part ways at the playground gate and only re-connect when it was time to leave.  

I learned about the other granny's families and the work they used to do.  When I was in Scotland, I was on vacation from job as the ISU sexual assault advocate.  The women were fascinated by the fact that such a position was needed.  I tried to explain that a lot of my work was about prevention and safety.  One granny, Lila, suggested that "cutting it off if it got in the wrong place" would be an effective way to prevent assault and keep people safe.  

One of the other grannies, Doret, kept asking me if I knew specific people.  I'd say, "oh, do they live in Ames?  or Iowa?"  She'd answer that they lived in Dallas, or Boston, or Atlanta.  We'd all laugh when she finally admitted she had no idea about US geography.  "Same for me about Scotland," I assured her.

We were in Edinburgh for the next three weeks.  While my daughter, a visiting professor at Edinburgh University, took my 12 year old grandson to class with her, Mica and I hustled down to the playground to meet up with the grannies and their grandchildren.  

Mica, now thirteen years old, claims to have no memories of these play groups.  She only remembers me making her walk each morning to get my coffee, then on through the creepy graveyard so we could sit at the base of Edinburgh Castle.  There, I would talk with old people in the rain and order her to go play.  

 

Flowing on Jordan to the Dead Sea

https://youtu.be/RpgwCawiAw0 *

For decades I have had the same therapist, Jordan.  It started with a referral to them from our family doctor when our family was going through a rough patch back in the 1990s. This person saw our family in all sorts of configurations - solo, couple, family.  They eventually helped me navigate the breakup of my marriage. 

For a few years I saw this person regularly and they helped me learn so much about myself.  And then, not surprisingly, about my connection and relationship to my children, my ex, my family of origin, and this is corny, but, the world.  This learning was empowering and helped me see so much of my life through a lens I did not even know was available for me to look through.  Life didn't become perfect, but it did become informed.

Over time I moved to a few other places.  I'd seek out counseling now and again, but it never seemed as real and authentic as with Jordan.  Sometimes I'd book an appointment with Jordan and drive a few hours just to have a counseling session where I didn't have to explain every bit of context for what I was dealing with in that moment. 

Fifteen years ago, I moved about forty-five minutes from Jordan  and re-established an "as needed" schedule of counseling.  Some years that means monthly, sometimes there have been five or more years between visits.  Last year, during the pandemic, I asked Jordan for zoom counseling sessions and they obliged.  I stated that when I first met them, I thought it was the most difficult time in my family's life.  But I was wrong.  It was even more difficult last year.

Currently Estranged from a Family Member

Scott Berkun - Research from "The Ghost of My Father" 2014               

Jordan listened to me, questioned me, and as usual asked me to question myself about the things that I was bringing to our sessions. Eventually, Jordan said, "I think you need to talk to someone else about this.  Someone who specializes in estrangement."  I agreed.

Jordan introduced me to Chris via zoom.  I liked Chris.  They told me all about estrangement and the studies, the science as it is, behind estrangement.  That made sense to my mind and my heart.  The loss does not hurt any less, but I understand  and can wrap my heart around this.

Until today.  Now I question if Chris is a real counselor.  Chris has wanted me to do some "work" on my own.  Chris says this work will prepare me for the possibility of the estrangement lasting forever, or the estrangement being reconciled.  I want to be prepared. So I agreed to do the "work."

Seems the "work" is verbatim lesson number X from an online writing class:

• What is it that you feel is missing from your life right now? List as many or as few items as you like.
• Is there something that you had in the past that you wish you still had?
• Do you feel like you are simply destined not to have some of the things you may want out of life? Where did this belief come from?
• Is there a time in your past that you "realized" it just might not be in the cards?
• Can you think of anyone you know that has the thing that is missing from your life? What did he or she do differently than what you're doing right now?
• Why do you think this thing is missing? Try to find as many "reasons" as you can.

Fuck you Chris. Thank you for helping me, though. I'm heading back to Jordan.

___________________________________

* I did not know until I started searching for an image for this post that my experience with counseling is a metaphor for flowing down the Jordan River to the Dead Sea.  Thanks interwebs. Thanks Jordan.

Covid-19: And the Need Goes On

Sony & Cher - The Beat Goes On

Many of your who read my blog know that I am the director of a small nonprofit agency, Good Neighbor that offers financial assistance to people who live in Story County, Iowa.  Every day when I walk to my office, this song starts playing in my mind, one beat for every step I take. 

I have changed some words:
   And the need goes on, the need goes on.
   Bah, bah, bah, bah,bah - the need goes on.
   Lada lada dee, lada lada da.
   Here I come to help you if I can.

For four blocks, this is my mantra.  You can imagine how many times I repeat it duing that five minute walk. Sometimes I am sort of whispering it aloud, but most of the time it stays quietly in my mind.  I'm not exactly sure when I started doing this, but now I can not stop doing this.

In case you worry about social distancing safety, when I walk to work, I am walking there to be alone in the office, helping people who call or email Good Neighbor.  I mail things out to them, or I call on a team of volunteers from a local faith community to deliver papers and other things if USPS will not work.  Again, we find a contact-less way for volunteers to make these deliveries.

I want to say more about the people I am helping.  I want to talk about the people who have always been poor and struggling to meet their basic needs, the ones whom it hasn't occurred to, that the moratorium on utility disconnections and rental evictions might apply to them as well as to "other people who had good jobs."  I want to talk about the people who call in from all over the state and country, disappointed to learn our services can only assist residents of Story County, then asking me what they need to do for me to make an exception. (Nothing, sorry.) I want to talk to all the people who were doing "fine" living paycheck to paycheck, and now with their first missed paycheck can not pay their mortgage, utilities, or car insurance and have no money for groceries or prescriptions.  I want to talk about the people who are still working but want to get all the assistance they can now so that they can keep their savings for when they really need it.  I want to talk about the people who promise me their $1200 Federal Assistance check if I will only give them $500 now.  I want to talk about all the people who have given us donations because they know that there is more need than ever right now.

But, I can't tell you those things.  Each call is unique, even when it falls into broad categories.  Each call is a plea to be heard.  Each call validates the uncertainty the majority of us are living in right now.  And each call is confidential.

And now, for the shameless plug - here is our website info.  If you, or someone you know in Story County, Iowa, needs help - go to our website.  If you want to help Good Neighbor hep others - go to our website.  Because, don't ya know? The need goes on, the need goes on . . .

   

gnea.org

Isolation Haiku

If not for this damn
isolation, I'd visit
all your special haunts.

First to the park where
we fed the birds for two years
before you couldn't.

Next, to Unistar.
I'd tell stories to grandkids
as they fall asleep.

Then, I'd invite your
family to dinner and
cook something healthy.

I'd walk to the end
of your block, turn, imagine
my hand on your back.

Now,  I isolate
with your daughters in my home,
trying to ignore

the hole in our lives.
Mermaid tubs, Laura Ingalls
Wilder, foot rubs,

melatonin, and
hugs can never fill the space
your life occupied.

You are twenty days
gone, twenty night's visiting
in my dreams. My dreams.

Because of this damn
isolation, I visit
all your special haunts

with you every night
in my dreams, with you in my
dreams. Sweet peace. Sweet peace.

Circe

"Sorceress Circe" Angelo Caroselli c.1630

On Circe, Judith Yarnall comments of this figure ..."What we know for certain – what Western literature attests to – is her remarkable staying power…These different versions of Circe's myth can be seen as mirrors, sometimes clouded and sometimes clear, of the fantasies and assumptions of the cultures that produced them." After appearing as just one of the characters that Odysseus encounters on his wandering, "Circe herself, in the twists and turns of her story through the centuries, has gone through far more metamorphoses than those she inflicted on Odysseus's companions." (Judith Yarnall, Transformations of Circe, University of Illinois, 1994, pp1-2)

About a month ago, a friend loaned me the recent bestseller, Circe by Madelyn Miller.  I was a bit hesitant to dive into it for a couple of reasons - 1) My life has been so busy lately, if I sit too quietly, for example to read or mediate, I often fall asleep; and 2) I think I have read all the mythology/sorceress/wise women tomes necessary for one lifetime. But my Midwest nice and work to completion ethic would not allow me to pass the book back, unread.  I also knew my friend would want to discuss all the various parts in the book.

In her book, Ms. Miller's imaginings go beyond the short period of time Circe is present in Homer's Odyssey.  We learn what Miller thinks Circe's childhood may have been like, and her what her solitary immortal adult life on her island of Aiaia may have included.

As often happens when reading a well written book, as I read further into the chapters, I began to see similarities between me and the protagonist.  Here was this child who loved and cherished her father and sought out every opportunity to be near him and impress him.  I can relate.  It is also commonly held, the topic of many conversations within and without the family, that this child was not as beautiful as, not as smart and strong as, her siblings.  Her looks, her voice, her actions annoyed everyone.

Eventually her father banishes her to, hopefully, save his own reputation and status.  I was relating hard by this part of the story.

She ends up on an island all by herself where she learns to make the best of her life, learning all she can about where she lives, and invites creatures into her home as company to substitute for the human companionship, maybe even love, she yearns for.  When her family and acquaintances learns that she tames wild creatures, makes potions and teas out of plants and roots, and takes odd people as lovers, they are not surprised or impressed.

Yet, those who know of her unconventional life style do not hesitate to ask for her assistance when they are in a bind.  They demand that she drop what she is tending to and give them potions or energy or whatever they desire.  She helps them, but often to her detriment.  In the end (not really a spoiler her, but skip the rest of this paragraph if you're worried) sadly, her story becomes just another happily every after story.

I feel like I could be Circe of the first and middle chapters of this book, only more crone-ish and cranky.  My Aiaia could be my whole adult life, a place I know well and where I have conjured safety and magic in equal proportions.  The wild beasts I've tamed could be those who met me without judgment and grew to respect my magic and nurturing for their own safety, growth, and maturing.  To this island of mine and my creatures, visitors come to and leave my shores.  

I could go on metaphorically about what all the visitors brought and took and left with me.  But suffice to say, parenthood and experience are the treasured gifts that came. I sat at my loom, whatever creative metaphor that part of the story is, and wove memories, lessons, and emotions from those experiences into the fabric of my life.  It seemed profound and affirming to compare my life to Circe's ... until the last chapters.

To the last chapters I say, "Really Madelyn Miller?"  You used all that creativity and imagination to create a life full of strong, brave, insightful, tender, and self-preserving episodes in Circe's life.  But in the end, you could not resist, like so many before you who have told Circe's story, having her swept away by the love of a good man who made her life complete.

I am not anti-love or relationships.  But I am a realist, I know the statistics for women my (and Circe's) age and re-partnering.  I would like to see a protagonist, especially one like Circe, who was so strong on her own through the majority of her life find peace and satisfaction in their solitary life.

In the spirit of my blog's name, Midlife Midwest, I give Madelyn Miller's Circe, 🌽🌽🌽🌽🌽 out of ten, because reading is better than not reading.   

Lacuna

la·cu·na

/ləˈk(y)o͞onə/

noun

noun: lacuna; plural noun: lacunae; plural noun: lacunas

1. an unfilled space or interval; a gap

I'm spending some time going through my journals today.  I recorded this dream in January of this year. I've been meditating on this concept since I had this dream.  Honestly, finding very little "lacuna" in my life these days.  Or?  Maybe I am stuck in some sort of gap or space in my life.

***************************************************

I got up early today - tested if I should be up for the day at 6:30 am by brewing myself a cup of coffee and gazing at the transformed puffy white branches that appeared overnight.  But the caffeine and snowscape was not enough to keep me awake in my chilly apartment.

Back in bed, I fell back to sleep almost immediately.  As I was drifting off, snug under my 20 pound weighted blanket, I was hoping for a dream and I wasn't disappointed.

The dream started with me being at some sort of gathering place at the bottom of sloping hills.  There was a large house and several small buildings close to the very large building I was in.  I could see all around because one wall of the building I was in had a large overhead door that was open.  There was a cavernous gathering room with tables and benches in this building, surrounded by doors that led to individual rooms for guests.  

There were a lot of people there.  At first I didn't recognize anyone.  Then Molly came.  I also "wondered" if some of the people milling around were other family members or people I knew.  Molly and I sat at a table and just looked around until an older man, a bald and tall Ross Perot in khakis and a blue chambray shirt, came over and asked why we were there.

I had no idea why we were there, so I began spewing things like, need a break, thought this was a retreat, it's so beautiful here . . . .  I thought he might be angry that we didn't have a good enough reason to be there, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his scowling face nodding from time to time as I talked.  

All of a sudden, one of Molly's staff slid onto the bench beside me.  I was terrified that I was in trouble because she was there.  The man and the staff looked at each other and broke into a joyous reunion.  They explained they'd known each other for a long time but didn't even know that they were each "still here."  They hugged and talked, and hugged some more.  

Finally the man stood on top of our table and called out, "It's time for you to explore.  I'll reward you when you return."  He then instructed us to go hike into the hills on any of the dirt paths.  I gazed out the large door and saw a network of wiry trails on every single hill that surrounded the valley we were in.  Already, the fastest hikers appeared like little ants, gliding up and down over the hills.

I offered to stay in the building and let Molly and her staff make the trek.  Getting up and exerting energy to hike  up and down seemed exhausting. Because no one invited me to stay, I felt compelled to go out and hike.  (At this point, I remember thinking that I was glad this was a dream and I didn't have to actually go and hike those hills.)  

I dragged behind Molly and staff, encouraging them to keep their fast pace ahead of me and not worry about me.  I'd stop to tie my shoe, to zip my jacket, to put my short hair into a ponytail, to put on gloves.  Finally, they were ahead far enough that I could not see them. I was only a few yards from the building we started from.

I went back inside.  There was the man.  He said, "I knew you'd be first back, that you wouldn't go far.  You'll still get a gift from me for your effort."  I felt relieved, but somewhat embarrassed that I'd made such little effort to hike the hills.  After what seemed a very long time, the masses of people returned, rosy and invigorated from their long hikes.  I regretted my choice to opt out of the hikes as I heard them exclaiming what beauty they'd witnessed from the different hill tops.  

Molly and her staff, as invigorated as the rest, found me.  We all got in line to receive our gifts from the man.  I could not see what people were getting at the head of the line, as we were way in the back.  I was, in fact, the last person in line.  (I worried I might wake up before I got my gift because it was taking forever!)

People squealed and gasped, hugged and cried as they held their gift gently in their cupped hands.  As we inched closer, I could sometimes seen a glimmer of light, sometimes a flash of white.  No matter what, the reaction was the same.  I was so confused.  Eventually I could see that some people got what appeared to be a precious jewel, while others got a small piece of vellum paper.

I was increasingly anxious about how long this was taking.  First I worried Molly, her staff, and I would not get a gift before I woke up.  I needed to know what we were getting!  Finally, there were only a few people ahead of us, but I could sense I was beginning to wake up.  Then I did.  For a moment.  I pulled the covers up higher and turned over, and fell immediately back to sleep.

Now, Molly and her staff were holding small jewels. I did not get to witness them receiving their gifts or hear what the man said to them.  Molly's jewel was purple, her staff's was blue.  I had nothing in my hand.  

There was a woman (in western wear) standing where the man had been and she was making an announcement.  She said "He's gone.  He passed peacefully.  He was so happy to see all of you."

Everyone began weeping quietly. The tears seemed to be more of gratitude and joy for having known him than for sorrow or loss.  I began crying too, hoping people would think my tears were as joyous and calm as the rest, when really I was so sad for myself missing a gift.  

I imagined the jewels were very valuable and could have been sold for a great sum.  I imagine the paper had some sort of valuable information from the reaction of those who received the papers.  I could not stand to be there any longer, giftless.  I wanted to wake up, but I did not.  

The woman who'd taken the man's place, and who I was certain saw through my false emotions, made her way to me.  I was afraid she was going to call me out.  Instead she smiled softly and held out her closed hand.  This sort of pissed me off.  She was so genuinely kind.  I wanted to call HER out about the lack of equality in the gifts and the delivery.  I wanted to demand to know who she was, who the man was, where we were, why we were there . . . I did not want to touch her.

But I did.  I put out my outstretched open palm under her still closed hand.  In a flash, she opened her hand and out floated a small vellum strip of paper that landed on my hand.  I grasped it and brought the paper back to where I could read it.  There was one word on it.

Is this really what others were so excited about getting?  Did we all get the same word? I wanted to call her out for the hokiness of the whole process, the whole dream.  Before I could mount my protest, I was being held by Molly, her staff, and this women.  In a moment, I went from cranky to enraptured.  Like others who got their gifts earlier, bliss-filled tears wet my cheeks.

Finally our little cluster hug broke up and the woman said to me,  "You know, he saved that one just for you.  Use it when you feel you need to."  

I looked down and and read the word again.  Lacuna.  I looked back at the woman, puzzled.  "Really," she said, "it's a gift."

I fell back to sleep and woke up cranky.  Or something.  The word, lacuna, rattles around my brain and psyche.  I imagine how everything and anything in my life is like, or could be, an unfilled space, a gap?  And how is that a gift?