On the train, I suggest she should decide soon whether to wait for the crisis which is inevitable, and cope with catastrophe when it comes, or take active steps to ward off the crisis. There are only two endings possible, but she can still choose, for a time. She looks sad.
Dark comes early these days.
In email, I say yes, it's an unhappy situation, but what would you do in her place? Would you walk away from what you thought was the great love of your life just because all your friends hate him and you, yourself, have seen evidence of a weak character? Should you?
A star falls from the sky, leaving a beautiful trail of light.
In the car, I alternate between brisk and soothing encouragement, marveling aloud at how hard she's worked to overcome crippling self-doubt and then gone beyond the healing, an ongoing process, to excel in the art she loves so much.
Across the street, a late rose, defiant of temperature and season, glows palely amidst dark foliage.
At home, I think about time, and love, and purpose; sorrow and memory; the different kinds of courage each day requires. I have gradually come to believe failure is not wrong, only uncomfortable, and there is no master plan from which to deviate, only a personal geography of desire and fulfillment.
The fire crackles to itself across the room, and one of my cats climbs into my lap. I press my face into her fur, making her purr and flex her claws.
