set and re-set and let’s do it all again.

When I was little and went to kindergarten, I was really disappointed over the lack of homework I had to do.

I thought I’d finally be like my brothers and have to do homework, too. I knew they didn’t exactly love that club, but I loved any club that involved being more like them, so I was all for it. But it didn’t happen. I know, I know, cry me a river.

I say that because, well, I don’t really mind the idea of homework. Probably because I don’t have to do much of it right now. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do a lot of work at home, actually. But it’s not anything I have to hand in to Mrs. Birdsall, who was my kindergarten teacher, God bless her.

So this is why I very excitedly ripped open my package from Amazon today. It was my book. My, ah, workbook, to be specific. It’s called breaking free. No, sorry, It’s called Breaking Free. At first I was confused, because someone had already taken a highlighter to it. And then I remembered I only paid $3.47 for it. Read: it is used. Oh well, at least the highlighter is yellow. But, right away, I started eating granola and working through it. Well, if right away means after a rehearsal and after I baked bread and after I worked on choreography, that is.

And then I got sad. Because you have to think heavily on some sad things that have happened to you. Actually, you have try to remember every dadgummit last one of them. And then you have to analyze them. How did it make you feel? What lesson did it teach you concerning your value? Your ability to be vulnerable? Your imperfections and what they mean?

Well, book that is surprisingly highlighted all over every one of your pages but not surprisingly only $3.47, How would you feel if your husband packed his bags and snuck out while you were sleeping, only to much later finally answer the phone and tell you that you’ll never see him again?

Probably not like throwing a party on Valentine’s Day, I am guessing.

Which is exactly something I have been considering. Either that, or joining a convent, I told one friend. He told me that his monk robes are in the wash. And then I said there might just be a few options somewhere in between partying on Valentine’s Day and marrying the church. I mean, google might have a few ideas, at least. Google seems to think of everything.

So, yeah. I believe in this kind of thing, though. And who was it who said that it’s the darkest hour just before the dawn? Probably Google. Google is so smart. But right. I think we go through hard times–sometimes even on purpose (gasp! clutching my pearls! and still gasping!) in order to live freely. Let me make that less boring.My oldest brother broke his arm once. Nobody knew it because he’s kind of a beast in the department of pain tolerance. So it healed all kinds of wrong. Wasn’t his fault the arm broke and nobody blamed him for it; nobody even blamed him for it healing wrong. But the doctor had to re-break it. And then set it properly, so it could heal right. And then he could use his arm properly, the way it was meant to be used.

So it is with a heart and a mind and a soul, I believe.

We go through the pain of feeling the break again in order to make sure it is set the kind of way that will heal it up right.

And then we throw parties on Valentine’s Day.

Or not.

But we at least don’t go around singing Love Stinks.

Because it doesn’t; it really doesn’t. It takes my breath away, actually.