Every July 18th I have a big bowl of ice cream. It’s my way of celebrating her. To really do it right, I should go to a Friendly’s and order a Jim Dandy, or Carvel and get the biggest vanilla soft serve that could fit on a cone without toppling over, but really, any ice cream will do, because she was all about enjoying whatever was in front of her.

She stood 4’11”, and wore a 4½ shoe. If she knew I was going to the mall she would ask me to take a look and see if any of the shoe stores carried her size in a wedge heel. That was her favorite. They never did. There are not many elementary school kids wearing wedge heels, and children’s stores were the only place I was able to find her size. Her hands too were small, but incredibly strong, easily kneading the dough for pizza, or pasta, or pie well into her nineties. If I were in the room she would instruct me to touch whatever it was she was making, so I would know what it should feel like to get the best results. She did most things by feel.

It’s those hands, wrinkled and gnarled by years of hard work, I remember most clearly. Probably because I spent so much time looking at them as she showed me how to sew, to knit and to crochet. I liked to watch them as she wrote because her penmanship was beautiful. She took great pride in it, having had to leave school after the 8th grade to help support her family. Everything from checks to shopping lists looked as though they had been done by a calligrapher. Small, daily works of art. Her hands were her means of expression in so many ways.

Maria Josephina went by many names: Mary, Goomah (godmother) Mary, Josie, Jo, Ma, Great Ma. To me she was just Gram. Most would agree she was an incredibly generous person, especially with her time. She loved to teach others to make things, from tomato sauce to blankets, dolls to cookies. After she died people we didn’t even know would tell my mother all the things they learned from her. We hadn’t fully appreciated the extent of her reach. Bragging was not her thing.

As a teenager intent on designing my own clothing, I would often go to her when I got stuck making a pattern. We had many “discussions” about why she was telling me to do something a certain way. I would ask a question. She would explain. I would ask again. She would explain. And so it went, ask, explain, ask explain, over and over until I finally got it. Occasionally though, I didn’t get it, or thought I knew better, and had the gall to challenge her, a master seamstress with decades of experience, about how a sleeve should be set, or the placement of a waistband. She would patiently allow this to go on for a certain amount of time, until finally, if I did not stop, one of those tiny hands would rise, all five fingers extended and pinched together. “STATAZITA!” would escape from her lips as she marched off to her room and closed the door not so softly behind her. I knew there was no point in trying to say anything else after that. For the time being the discussion was over. Period.

Inevitably, I would recognize the error of my ways and sheepishly knock on her door to apologize. There she would be, smiling at me from her armchair, feet dangling inches above the floor, the crochet hook in her hand moving swiftly through a ball of yarn, not so much as looking down as the blanket on her lap grew larger. “I’m sorry, Gram,” I would say. But she had already forgiven me and moved on. She was special that way.

I remember asking her once what “Statazita” meant. “It means…please be quiet.” Recently, I came across the word while reading. Based on the context of the writing, I am pretty sure a closer translation would be, “Shut the F*%$ Up,” and I got a good laugh out of that.

It’s not a coincidence I chose today, her birthday, to start posting my art again. I decided to say “Statazita!” to myself for all the reasons I keep giving for not sharing my work, or participating more fully in the creative community I enjoy so much. With any luck, I will be making and teaching well into my nineties, working by feel, allowing my hands to express what is often so hard to say out loud.

I spend a lot of time working in coffee shops. I write, I read and I draw in them. I have meetings in them, and although it’s a little tricky, I even paint in them on occasion. I frequent them so often that my family refers to my current favorite as my office.  It may seem like more trouble than it is worth: lugging everything around, having to be careful about leaving a laptop or phone unattended. I’m not even a coffee drinker. But I go anyway.

As someone who works primarily from home, these shops fulfill a useful purpose for me.  They force me out of the comforts of my house and my head, and into the world at large. This is important because my definition of a good life is one that is interesting, and nothing interests me more than other humans and how we all interact on this earth together.  I can read about it, watch the news, and scour the Internet, but there is something very special about existing in real time, with real people, who are going about the messy and fascinating business of life.

Many people speak transcendently of the feelings they experience when in nature. They talk of stress melting away, the recharging of one’s soul, and a profound sense of being part of something bigger than oneself. I have experienced these very things, particularly when standing on the shore in my home state of New Jersey; looking out over the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean as the sun gently lowers itself into the waves.  It’s beautiful, peaceful, and fills me with a sense of awe. It calms me, but it doesn’t excite me.

As spectacular as nature is, it is not what makes my heart beat faster, or my mind race with possibility. For that I need people, and people-made-things: conversations and writings and art, buildings and food, interpretations and opinions, a variety of cultures and connections. These are the things that hold my interest, light my imagination on fire, and fill me with more emotion than even the most magnificent sunset. Cities have an abundance of them, and so it is in a city I feel most at home. It is in a city that I swim most effortlessly. I am a city fish.

I have always been a bit wary of birds. As far as I can tell, my apprehension is not the result of a single incident, but there are several things which may have contributed: watching a certain Alfred Hitchcock movie as a child, or growing up near the shore, where if you didn’t cover your french fries on the walk from the snack shack back to your blanket you ran the risk of being attacked by a hungry mob of seagulls. Then there is the whole “wings where hands should be” thing. All of this however, is small potatoes compared to my experiences while living in northern California, where the birds are pterodactyl-like in size, and much more intimidating than any I have ever encountered in my native northeast.

One experience with an extremely aggressive turkey left me particularly shaken.  I had been avoiding it for days as it wandered aimlessly around our neighborhood admiring itself in the reflection of various parked cars. Then one morning, as I was getting ready to leave, I found it standing in our driveway.  I stopped in my tracks, our eyes locked, and I can distinctly remember wondering if it could sense my fear. It didn’t take long to find out.  As I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and walked as confidently towards my truck as possible, the turkey smirked and stepped directly between me and the vehicle’s door. I took a step back. It took a step back. I tried again. Same thing. We danced like this for some time, me getting more panicky by the minute, it clearing enjoying itself. I eventually dove in through the passenger window while it was busy preening itself in the driver’s side door, but it took me half of the afternoon to find an opening.

Not long after, something even worse occurred. I was taking our small dog out in the backyard to do her business. She was happy, wagging her tail. I was happy too.  It was one of those really beautiful days. Sun shining, the perfect temperature, a big blue sky overhead and the smell of jasmine in the air. Then we heard it…a soft rustling noise. Then silence. Then more rustling, but louder now. The bushes started to shake. The dog froze, I froze, and before I even had a moment to assess what could be happening, a large dark object flew directly towards my head. I instinctively ducked and felt a strong whoosh of wind as it passed close to my face. Turning, I was able to take in its appearance for the first time, and gasped at its hideousness. There I was, standing face-to-face with the dreaded Turkey Vulture.

Have you seen one of these creatures before? If not, let me paint you a picture. Start by picturing a shrunken, wrinkly head about the size of an apple, with a few straggly hairs still attached here and there. Add in some beady eyes, a craggy looking hooked beak, then balance the entire thing atop a bird-body the size of a small child.

The dog started barking frantically, but the scavenger was as cool as a cucumber and absolutely not backing down. It started moving purposefully towards our pup, its wings outstretched, flapping. A battle was brewing and I knew I had only a moment to make a decision. I took one more look at the formidable beast to my left, then down at the wimpy mini schnauzer who gets hand fed baby carrots and has to be carried past the big bad clothes dryer, and quickly calculated who had the better odds.  I knew what I had to do.

Holding my arms open wide and screaming like I was on fire, I charged straight towards the giant bird. I would like to tell you it flew away, never to be seen again, but all it did was calmly hop up onto the fence and sun itself for the next hour, or so.  No matter. I had made my point, and learned something about myself in the process. I have the ability to face my fears head on (and still have a dog to prove it). 

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor pulling pieces of artwork from my journals. I had been invited to participate in a local art show, and each time I came upon something I thought might work, I tossed in onto our dining room table for consideration. As I made my way through the piles, a figure I made years earlier, a woman’s face on a zebra’s body (a she-bra?) fell out of one of my notebooks. Standing solidly on four legs, chin raised defiantly in the air, it was an image I always felt exuded confidence and strength. I had tried to use it in various collages before, but it never quite fit, so it ended up, time and again, back in a drawer. Frustrated that I hadn’t yet found it a home, I threw it too onto the table, and went to have lunch, thinking about how odd it was that my work would soon be hanging in a public space. It had been about three decades since that last happened.

I had been an artist during my teens, and a fairly decent one at that. I was even accepted into a prestigious art school, but transferred out shortly after completing my first year. I had no choice.  While I had managed to do what was necessary to finish the year successfully, the thought of drawing and painting was suddenly so unappealing; I literally could not force myself to do it any longer. That is not to say I no longer loved art. I adored art, and incorporated it into my life whenever possible. I transferred to a university and got my undergraduate degree in art history before moving on to a career in business. I enrolled our children in a Jewish preschool, (despite not being Jewish) in large part because of the outstanding art enrichment program the school had developed. I made elaborate Halloween costumes every year, and volunteered to help during art classes in our local elementary and middle schools. I was constantly buying our children pads of beautiful paper, rainbows of colored pencils, markers galore. They could identify Van Gogh’s Starry Night as easily as Santa Claus before they entered kindergarten. But I did not draw. I did not paint. Not one thing. Not for more than 25 years. And I really couldn’t figure out why.

Sure I would have liked to be making art. I did miss it. But, it was okay. I had a lot of other wonderful things in my life. Things were going well. And then suddenly, they weren’t. First one uncle died, then another, then a close family friend, my grandmother, another uncle. All within a relatively short period of time.  I come from a close-knit family. It was too much. There were no words. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with a need to make art, while at the same time paralyzed by my inability to do so. In searching for a place to take basic art lessons, I came upon an ad for a collage class. No drawing necessary. This seemed more my speed. Surely I could cut and paste? I signed up.

A Shadow Artist is someone who deep down has the desire to be an artist, but due to various reasons (lack of support, negative beliefs they hold regarding making art, fear, not believing one’s work is good enough, etc., etc., etc.) instead chooses a different path. Because of their true feelings however, they often find other, more “acceptable” ways to stay close to the arts. The want-to be-author may work in publishing for example, instead of writing a novel himself. A doctor, who would much rather be a painter, may become a benefactor at her favorite museum.

When I first read about Shadow Artists in Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way, I was startled by the feelings of recognition it stirred up. It was as though someone had gained access to my soul and brought to the surface something I had been hiding, but until that moment, had not even realized existed. The emotions were uncomfortable so I put the book away; happy to go back to making collages I had no intention of displaying, and allowing only a handful of people I deemed “safe” to see them.

But it’s hard to un-know something once it has shown itself to you, and the more I tried to ignore the Shadow Artist, the more desperate she became to be seen. She showed her face first in one of my collages, and the experience filled me with such sadness, I found myself crying while trying to finish it. My tears seemed only to up her resolve, as she kept pushing pencils and paintbrushes relentlessly into my hand. Eventually it became easier to acknowledge her than to keep denying her existence. I started cautiously drawing and painting, despite the fact that I still had trouble referring to myself as an artist. It took awhile, but in time I started to feel its joy again, and more comfortable sharing what it is I do, and when the Shadow Artist showed up uninvited yet again in another collage, she no longer invoked grief, but instead seemed to be presenting herself as a challenge. I named that collage “Connect the Dots,” a reference to what I was discovering about myself.

That very piece was now lying on my dining room table, and as I walked back in after lunch to finish choosing pieces for the show, I saw that the strong, confident image I had had so much trouble placing before, had landed on top of it in such a way that the Shadow Artist was almost completely covered. She had finally found her rightful home. I immediately sat down and started to peel the Shadow Artist off the page, stopping (and patching her up a bit) only when I realized I didn’t need her to be gone completely, only gently held back.

In case you are wondering why I gave up on making art in the first place, I think I have it (mostly) figured out: Art school is a wonderful choice for many people, but it didn’t work for me, because it didn’t match the way I create, or how I feel about my purpose as an artist. For me, the process, and what it reveals, is just as important (maybe even more so), than the finished product. I might polish things up at the end so it looks a little better, but the inspiration cannot be prescribed. If I am given too many specifics about what to make, how to make it, or even what materials must be used, I stumble, getting caught up in perfectionistic thoughts and worries about meeting others’ expectations of how art should look. I work best when I just sit down and see what happens. Art as an “assignment” (essentially what my first year of art school was all about) drained me, leaving me with nothing left to give.  

Art as “competition” (being compared and graded against my fellow students) had an even more negative effect. People who know me well may find this funny, as I do have quite a competitive streak in other areas, but it is not the way I view the arts. I see them as a medium for bringing people together through connection and community, shared ideas, thoughts, feelings and culture. For me, they just don’t work as a zero-sum game.

How fabulous is the feeling when we resolve a problem, make a discovery that changes us for the better, or allow ourselves to show vulnerability and have it met with empathy and understanding? Just knowing we are headed in the right direction can make everything a little lighter, clearer, brighter, and produce a glow strong enough to illuminate our path forward. My…that’s huge. 

It can be tough to grow older in a culture that places such a high value on youth. We hear so many negative comments about aging that we often forget about its benefits. The truth is, many studies show that  people feel a greater sense of happiness and well being starting in their early 50s. One of the biggest reasons may be a deeper sense of appreciation for everyday experiences and things we already have:

Oh sweet castle in the sky

I longed for you as years slipped by.

I told myself you weren't real,

Forced you from my mind with zeal.

But time she is a teacher wise

And age gave me a grand surprise

For when I came to circle round

There sat my castle, on the ground.

I began combining my artwork and my writing a couple of years ago. The visual almost always comes to me first, even if I don’t recognize it right away. Many times a poem, a story, or even a just a thought I want to remember pops into my head.  As I am writing it down I’ll say to myself, “I should make an image to go with this.” Then I realize I already have one that fits the words very well.

It surprised me the first few times it occurred, but made perfect sense after I thought it through. I am sure it happens because of the way I work. When I sit down to draw or collage, I almost always begin without any preconceived notion of what the finished product will be. I just start doodling, gluing, or putting down a color that I happen to be attracted to that day. Over the course of a few minutes, or a few days, a picture will start to emerge and I just go with it. Because I am not trying to force anything, my mind has plenty of space to wander. Whatever is floating around in my subconscious finds its way out, first as an image (I suppose because I am a very visual person), and then as words (because the time I have spent making the art has allowed me to organize my thoughts).

When I was making this particular collage, I was thinking quite a bit about my family history. I was trying to locate some information about a relative that died many years before I was born, and thinking how nice it would be to have that knowledge to share with my dad (it was his mother), and also my children.

Here are the words, in case you are having trouble reading them:

As she paused to take in her surroundings

She could not help but wonder:

How many had stood in the exact same place before,

And how many would come after.

She felt strangely akin to both past and future.

A quiet observer. A humble connector,

An amenable gate through which the mighty universe may pass.

She considers the possibility of all existence converging in a single moment

And marvels as time becomes obsolete.

When we first moved to the west coast, I was anxious to find a place to belong. I had been part of a wonderfully inspiring collage group on the east coast, so I decided to search for something similar near our new home. After checking the internet, local adult schools, and every art related venue within a reasonable distance, I eventually learned of a class, led by the talented artist and photographer Lisa Rigge, which met monthly to practice something called “Dream Collage.”  Lisa first led a discussion based on a predetermined topic related to dreaming (animals in our dreams, or water, for example), then participants would create a collage based on their own experiences with that week’s subject matter. While it wasn’t exactly what I had been looking for, collage was involved, so I decided to give it a try.

This is probably a good time to tell you, I don’t remember my dreams. Well, not much of them anyway. There are one or two I can recall in their entirety from childhood, but as far as dreaming in adulthood is concerned, I have only been able to elicit a few fleeting snippets. This made attending Lisa’s class a bit like being a vegetarian at a pig roast, but that’s not to say I didn’t get anything out of it. Lisa is so knowledgeable about the subject matter, she could easily teach a college level course comparing the dream theories of Sigmund Freud to Carl Jung, while making it both interesting and completely understandable. And the other attendees made it worthwhile as well, as they were kind and welcoming at a time when kind and welcoming was exactly what I needed. I found the discussions lively and interesting, and everyone’s willingness to share, refreshing. Ultimately my inability to conjure up any recent dreams, as well as the timing of the class, caused me to stop attending, but Lisa and I keep in touch, sharing collage techniques from time to time, and occasionally sending information we think the other might find useful.

Then there’s Laura…

Laura and I met on a train bound for New York City and became fast friends when we realized we were both traveling to the same class.  Having similar interests, and both being stay at home moms at the time, we spent a great deal of time drinking tea together and contemplating everything from the best way to get our kids to eat vegetables, to our roles in the universe.  We were both curious about blogging, so we set up a weekly writing exchange to explore the idea further. Each Friday we sent one another a prospective blog post, followed a few days later by constructive criticism (by the way, this is an UNBELIEVABLLY good way to determine if you enjoy writing regularly, can meet a deadline, and are comfortable sharing personal information).  I had just received feedback from Laura on an essay about a recurring dream I had as a child (which I may not have remembered at all had I not attended a few Dream Collage sessions), when…

I received an email from Lisa telling me of an open call for submissions to The Rose in The World, a publication to which she subscribes. I sent my essay in the next day and it was chosen for publication!

Getting a piece of writing published was a goal of mine, so I was not only honored, but thrilled. Was it lucky timing? Synchronicity? While I do believe in such things, I think something much more controllable was at play.

I almost left Lisa’s class before getting to know her, because it wasn’t really what I was looking for. I almost gave up on the exchange with Laura, because as an inexperienced writer, each essay took a crazy amount of time to compose. In both instances though, I chose to keep going, because the women and the activities fit into my larger goals: to Create, Connect and Grow. I am only now beginning to fully appreciate how much more likely I am to reach my goals when I have a road map to guide me in the right direction.

Someone once told me the following story about a young woman they knew who was attending art school:

The woman and her classmates were given a difficult assignment. Each had to produce a painting, which would take a great deal of time and effort to make. 

On the day the paintings were due they arrived in class eager to show off their work, but unaware that in order to complete their projects a final task was required. In what surely must have seemed like a joke, they were instructed to destroy the artwork on which they had just worked so hard. The instructor was quite serious. They had to destroy their work, or get a failing grade for the assignment.

What kind of teacher would require such a thing? A very caring one it turns out, because those students were actually being taught, in a very real and memorable way, a crucial skill. They were learning to let go of their work. It is something many artists have trouble doing, but is absolutely necessary in the professional arena. Simply put, if what you make becomes so precious to you that you are unable to part with it, you are going to find it extremely difficult to make a living in a creative field.

If I had been in that class, I very well may have been one of the students who failed because “precious” and I have long had our own issues. For me, the difficulty centers mainly on a certain scenario in which I have found myself a thousand times. It typically plays out like this:

I am working on a drawing, painting, etc., and it is turning out well. Maybe even a little better than I had anticipated. I am starting to really like it, and have an idea I think will make it even better. As I am about to put my plan into action a thought suddenly pops into my head, causing me to stop: “What if I ruin it?” 

This is, of course, a valid consideration, as I HAVE ruined many things in the past, and therein lies my dilemma. If I am making something I feel is “pretty good,” is it better to stop and end up with something I like? Or, take a chance and possibly create something I love, knowing however, there is the potential to completely wreck it in the process?

I was pondering this very question, paintbrush hovering uncertainly over a collage in progress, when I realized something interesting. Almost all of the artwork I was tempted to change, but didn’t (out of fear) was sitting in the closet, or at the bottom of a drawer. I liked it enough to save, but not enough to want to see it, because in my mind, it wasn’t really finished. So much for preciousness. 

So what happened when I dug up some of my old work and made the changes I had been too scared to make before?  Well, there were a lot of disasters! But it also resulted in several pieces with which I am finally and truly happy. The image on top is one of those pieces. The image below shows what it looked like while sitting in a drawer for over a year, before I did what I wanted to do all along.  

Now I am thinking of how many things, artwork and otherwise, I have left unfinished in my life that may benefit from a little less preciousness. I am certain that some will result in disasters, but how great will it be if some of them, or even one of them, results in a wish being fulfilled ?

Note to self: Never, ever, underestimate the power of art.

Several weeks before my 50th birthday my husband asked me how I wanted to celebrate.  Was there a new restaurant I was dying to try? What about a party? I had been thinking about it for some time and had my answer ready.

A party was a definite “no”.  I lean a little towards introversion and that side usually wins out as far as celebrations are concerned, at least those in which I am to be the guest of honor. Celebrating five decades on this planet was something I was looking forward to and I was determined to recognize it in a way that was fully in my comfort zone.

As for going out to dinner? I am introverted not irrational, so that was a great big “yes”. Having someone cook for me, then sharing that meal with people I love, is exactly the type of intimate and personal observance I enjoy. But still, there was something lacking. This was a milestone birthday, and I wanted to mark it in a way that was a little more meaningful than a nicely cooked prime rib. To figure out what that might be, I had been asking myself the same question over and over as the big day drew near:

What is something I really love but haven’t had enough of in my life lately?

I’m not going to lie. A great leather moto jacket crossed my mind, as did booking myself a massage (or two), but there was something that loomed larger than anything else. I wasn’t spending enough time in the presence of like-minded women, and it had started to take its toll.

The problem began a few years earlier when we moved cross-country for my husband’s job and we all had to start from scratch in terms of making new friends. It didn’t take long to realize that meeting new people in a new town is not as easy when your kids are middle-schoolers (and your presence is no longer required, or desired, everywhere they go), as when they are younger. Living in suburbia, a decent car ride from most things I enjoy, wasn’t helping either. I’m not saying it was all bad. I had met some potentially great friends, but jobs, schedules and family obligations simply had not allowed us to spend the necessary time together to become close. What I wanted for my birthday, what I needed for my sanity, was more quality female companionship, and a greater, more sustained sense of connection.

That realization, painful as it was to admit out loud, helped me determine what my ideal gift would be: going away for a few days with a small group of women to share laughter, stories and thoughts. I was pretty proud of myself for figuring that out, until I remembered I was living 3,000 miles away from all my closest girlfriends. For various reasons, I couldn’t justify flying east at the time and felt uncomfortable asking them to make a costly and time-consuming trip to me, especially so close to the holidays. A trip also seemed a lot to ask of my relatively new California friends, with whom I was still in the “getting to know you” phase. Yet I knew I was on the right track, and didn’t want to let go of the idea.

My solution arrived in the form of a promotional email for a three-day writing retreat within driving distance from our home. Excited, I signed up without looking too closely at the details, and that is how I, a married, liberal, non-religious mother of two, found myself arriving alone at a convent in northern California the weekend following my 50th birthday. To be accurate it was actually a former convent, but one that held to many of its old ways out of respect for its spiritual roots and former residents. There were, for example, many places set aside for prayer and self-reflection beneath the gaze of saintly statues and devotional artwork. The guest rooms were clean and private but devoid of any luxury. Twin beds with crisp sheets and well-worn blankets shared space with small and simple wooden desks. There was but one item of adornment on the walls of my room: a painting of the baby Jesus being held by the Virgin Mary, who stared at me through sad, foreboding eyes.  

The sparseness of accommodations was matched by a scarcity of noise, as there was a strict silence requirement in place. Talking of any kind was restricted to the room we met in as a group, the dining space, and a few common areas. Using your phone was allowed, but please, only in the parking lot.

If you think this austere experience sounds like an odd fix to my problem, believe me, I hear you, but I was desperate! Anyway, going there was not quite as bold as it appears. I hadn’t received that timely email purely by chance. I received it because I had attended a class led by the same amazing teacher the year before. So while I had no idea who the other participants at this particular event would be, or whether this experience would be as wonderful as the last, I felt strongly that whatever drew me towards this woman and her methods in the first place would attract others looking for similar things. It was a gamble for sure, but it wouldn’t take long to discover if my bet had paid off (and my car was parked right outside if it hadn’t).

Within an hour of arriving I happily found myself in the presence of two women I had met in the previous class I attended, as well as seven others whose stories I was looking forward to hearing. But it wasn’t until our teacher Linda arrived, gave me a hug and told me how glad she was to see me again that I felt myself finally begin to relax. Taking a deep breath I made the decision to jump wholeheartedly into what I hoped would be a rewarding weekend of sisterly alliance.  

Any lingering apprehension I felt melted quickly away as we gathered, wrote, and read together. Conversation flowed easily over the delicious meals we shared, as did our laughter, despite the fact that our talk often turned to weighty issues, and most of us had met only hours before. Perhaps our ability to be so open and forthright with one another had something to do with our anonymity, but I think the more likely scenario is we felt safe in one another’s presence. Linda had set a tone that united us, and through our sharing and willingness to be vulnerable we had, in a sense, walked in one another’s shoes, and seen things through each other’s eyes.

While I don’t think it is possible to gain in three days the depth of closeness and trust that develops naturally over a long and meaningful friendship, I did find what I was looking for that weekend. By the time I got into my car to return home I felt not only connected and grateful to the other women there, but also more comfortable in my own skin. In short, very similar to how I feel after spending time with close girlfriends.  I know through experience, not all attempts at connection have such satisfying results. Some may even set us back a bit. Still, I think it is worth the effort to keep trying, as finding even a little connection can infuse us with the energy and encouragement needed to be who we really are, keep plowing ahead, and draw closer to our full potential. That, and it feels really good.