The Things We Carry and The Places We Carry Them To

Have you ever been to a place where you feel simply like yourself, nothing more, nothing less? Not like somebody's mom, or sister, or friend, or wife, or daughter?  Like who you were in the past was irrelevant, and who you might be in the future would be different because you had been there?  There is such a place for me.  It exists in a small home on a quiet stretch of beach in a little town on the windward side of an island.  It looks out over the ocean, blue water as far as the eye can see.  I know I will return there as often as I can.  I remember lying in bed listening to the sound of waves rolling onshore and to the wind, causing the fronds of the palm tree outside my window to bend and scrape gracefully, casting shadows in the moonlight on the wall across from where I was sleeping.  And there was peace in who I am.

It was in this place, that I began to know myself.  Not as Roni and... anyone.  Just Roni.  It's where I first began to face all the truths of who I am from my own perspective, and no one else's... accepting all of it, not just the good and "pretty parts" but the broken and burning bits too.  Here I am a year and a half later doing the same thing from another table, another window, looking out over other waters.  And there is peace in who I am.