A tiny worm, about the size of a hangnail, moved millimeter by millimeter across my notebook page, its body scrunching then lengthening. I said to my son, Trevor, "Look, it's a little worm!" I pressed my finger to the page and the creature climbed delicately onto my skin. Trevor put his finger next to mine and we watched the worm travel from me to him.
Then he dropped it, by accident, into the grass.
While he sat in the sandbox, I put my face to the sun. I basked in warmth, let it absorb into my pores, light up my body. Peace—a joy relaxing—made me feel like I was almost floating. I thought about how lucky I am to live outside the fast, stressful pace of society, to be with a man who makes that possible for me.
Then I mourned my failures to care for myself, to count myself worthy, to love and enjoy.
I have a history, a way of looking at the world, a way of doing things. Broken though I am, I have value. I am me.