The miriad of things I am grateful for range from the extraordinary to the everyday moments. We took a trip with friends to Magdalena Bay in Southern Baja with Explora Baja, owned by some dear friends of ours. The whole trip was magical. Being so close to gray whales that you can touch them is the thrill of a lifetime.

Our lives are magical and there isn’t a day that goes by that we don’t comment on that.

The trip included a lovely morning on the Pacific side. We went through mangroves and ended up on the sand dunes and then the ocean. Wow.

———————————————

Whale trips are life changing, but every day brings us something special. The times we spend walking on the beaches here where we live in Baja are tremendous blessings.

I delight in watching the waves crash up onto the rocks.

We are most grateful for the generosity of our family and friends and the people here in the Baja that are part of the community. We have met many wonderful Mexicans who have shown us what it means to be part of this magical place. While it is being developed at a fast pace now, which is not to the liking of many who call this home, we can’t help but be grateful for our lives here every single day.

11-26-23

Dear Alcohol,

You do not hold sway with me anymore. I used to drink like a fish. No more. Good-bye, good riddance. 

You were in my life before I realized how good and lovable I am. Yes, you heard me. I am lovable, but with you I wasn’t. In fact, I was a different person. A completely different person, almost unrecognizable as being me. 

Thank goodness I broke it off with you so many years ago. For awhile I missed you. I really did. But then I got to thinking about how the people around me acted who were still hanging in there with you. Many of them looked and acted pretty awful. I thought, “Oh my! That was me!” 

Now I just stay with my new friend, Sobriety. What a relief. Now I look healthier, feel lighter and so much happier. Even when things go wrong, I keep hanging with my new friend, Sobriety, and that means I can function on a whole  different level, ready to face whatever the day may bring.

Oh, and I have a new tribe of other friends now too. We meet and greet each other quite often. It feels good to know that there are a lot of people who have broken up with you. Together, one day at a time, we can stick with our new friend, Sobriety. 

While breaking up may be hard to do, as the old song goes,  it has been the right thing for me. Good-bye, good riddance, Alcohol. I don’t miss you anymore. 

Susie

With alcohol you choose one thing over everything. With sobriety you chose everything over one thing. I choose sobriety!

Lately I’ve been jouirnaling about this topic. While I’ve been sober for 45 years, and I don’t feel any urge at all to have a drink, I realize that Alcoholic Anonymous has a lot to teach me about being a good person. About being a person who deals with obstacles and problems with grace instead of alcohol. I can use these tenants in my life.

11-19-23 My journal entry today: 

The sober, serene life in this wide and wonderful world can provide us what we need. Sometimes setting forth into the vast unknown can seem scary. But we pray for serenity to accept those things we cannot change–some of which make us fearful. 

For example, thinking about how we can NEVER AGAIN have a drink may make us afraid of failure and it may seem a daunting goal. But that’s what’s so great about AA’s mantra, “One day at a time.” 

Any goal we may choose can be accomplished one day at a time. We can throw out the NEVERs, FOREVERs, and all the SHOULDs we give ourselves. 

Sobriety can be trusted. 

Drinking cannot be trusted.

And we have countless reasons to trust in our sobriety. It guides us into a safer, new way of experiencing our lives. In SOBRIETY there is JOY for all of us. 

I choose JOY. ONE DAY AT A TIME.

urnal 11-24-23

When shame and guilt show up on my doorstep, I have learned to face them. But I do not let them take me down. As I’ve  learned, the past is the past. We live in the here and now. Rather than wallow in the pain of shame, I begin by doing some deep breaths and taking time to either read about ways to get back on track, write in my journal, exercise or pray/meditate. Sometimes, all of the above.

As a normally positive thinking person, I continue to work on choosing to let go of that ugly part of my life. Shaking hands with shame and guilt is a waste of time. After all, sobriety is where I live now and while life will always be in flux, and there will be ups and downs, it’s how I deal with obstacles and problems that make the difference.

After all, I might stop and take a few moments to congratulate myself on my sobriety. I might make a list of things I’m grateful for, remembering that serenity comes in my acceptance of things I can’t change. I continue to work to change what I can. I don’t wake up in strange places wondering how I got there anymore. Blackouts are a thing of the past. I’ve moved on.

What is in my wheelhouse is the understanding that I can choose to forgive myself. With confidence, I can put my shoulders back, stand up straight, reach with my head to the ceiling, and know that my creator is there for me if I ask for guidance. Even though I got sober without the aid of AA, today I am finding comfort in its tenants; especially in the awareness piece.

Living with awareness means always paying attention to the higher power that guides me.

I need only ask for that guidance. Then I can get on with living in the present. Today is the ballgame I’m playing in. I just need to step up to the plate and swing my bat. 

My mother used to say, “Let go, and let God.” With that advice I have faith I’ll  be guided to get to first base, and sometimes even round the bases to home plate. 

Autumn is the time of year when the sunrises and sunsets are the most dramatic.

We need only to turn our heads to  the sky.. Over the mountain tops it rises, with the clouds painting in between where the sun opens up its pallet.

Let the colors of the day see you through your rough patches.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Here in Baja Sur, evenings with our eyes on the ocean, el sol reminds us that day is done…well almost done.

First the sun shows off its last bit of glory for all who will

open their eyes to the blessings.

This is a green flash taken with our GoPro.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

The sky’s on fire

Red, orange, yellow and pink

Blessings from on high

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Now it’s the moon’s turn.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

A haibun (pronounced “hai- boon”) is a traditional form of Japanese poetry that combines prose and haiku. I added my photos to this too. Hope you enjoyed.

If you did, leave a “LIKE” or a comment please.

It’s a long ferry ride and many kilometers from home. He leaves his wife, son, and two daughters in Nayarit, Mexico to work in Baja California Sur. Jobs are scarce at home and he accepts his responsibility to care for his family, even though his heart reaches back. It’s not without sacrifice for them, but somehow they make it work.

Heriberto’s easy smile comes together with a sparkle in his deep brown eyes. After he’s been at our house two weeks working on the addition above the garage, we are accustomed to his raucous laughter as he chatters with the guys on the crew. It becomes obvious that his style of leadership makes everyone’s day seem more like a bit of fun than such noisy work as cutting through existing concrete and preparing the new.

Instead of the drudgery of mixing and then hefting cement in five gallon buckets up fifteen stairs, these trabajadores work through it by bantering with Heriberto. Hearing their laughter lifts our own spirits. It’s not all fun however. 

The temps are in the 90s these days, and the humidity fluctuates from the 60% to the 80%, making for long, hot days. Some days we can hear the thunder in the Sierra Laguna mountains as it heats up in the afternoon. 

I am curious about Heriberto’s family. Because my own sons don’t have any children, I’m not a grandma. It’s hard to imagine that I’ll never have grandchildren, but I have “adopted” a lot of “littles” in the last 13 years, and I’m okay with this arrangement. That’s why today I asked Heriberto to tell me about his niños. 

His youngest child is six years old and she likes to pretend she’s a Disney princess. Dressed in her princess outfit, she explains to her papi how she wants a princess bicycle. It makes my heart a little sad because he probably can’t afford to get her one. He lowers his voice, and expresses his delight with his charming arm movements, as he shares about his son and his older daughter too. “They’re good kids,” he says and his soft eyes and smile are full of pride. 

About a week goes by and I can’t stop thinking about the princess who wants a bike. Without fanfare I decide to see what I can do to make her wish come true. After talking with my husband, we agree that it would be fun to help Heriberto in this small way. I’ve checked on the internet for princess bikes and come up with an amount that will do the trick. But during our discussion, we realize that he has three niños, not just the princess, and we agree we must give him enough money to get the bike, and some left to surprise his older children too.

There is a fine line that must be considered as I know Heriberto might balk at accepting this from us. But my grandma heart tells me I can do this. I always listen to my heart, don’t you listen to yours?

As soon as the guys all go on a break the next day, I take Heriberto aside and tell him my plan. Just like I figured, he said, “No, no, Susie, you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to, I want to.” I hold up my hand to stop him from arguing with me. “Listen, we don’t have grandkids. We would be spoiling them if we had them, but we don’t. So let us do this.”

I gave him my best pleading look, and handed him a card I’d made with the money inside. He acquiesced! I thought he was going to cry, but he looked at me with those soulful brown eyes and he said, “Gracias. Muchas gracias.” And we hugged. 

“There’s only one more thing, Heriberto.” He looked puzzled. “We want photos. That’s all. Just photos of the princess on her bicycle. That’s when he gave me his beautiful smile.

“You got it!” he said.

The other two kids decided they would save their money until they had enough for what they wanted—cell phones. Heriberto told us that he and his wife wanted to teach their children that they need to work hard and save their money, just like Papi does, and when they have enough, they’ll get their cell phones. 

Heriberto told his wife she should take money from their emergency fund and when he goes back in December, he’ll have the money to put back. They shopped for the bicycle that very day and I got videos from the store and a couple more a few days later. Such a treat. The smiles will stay with me for a long time. Probably forever!

A win-win for all of us, I must say. 

In the video she said, “Susan and Greg, thank you.” (in English). Look at this little princess. Happiness prevails.

Pretty much everything bothers me lately. Every damn thing. Big. Small. In between. 

The music he chose for the two hour ride to the dentist appointment in La Paz bothered me. No sweetness of tune or beat or lyrics. Ugh. Turn it off paleeze. But I sat there the whole time (not saying a word) till we were almost to our destination. That’s when I pushed STOP. 

Whew. I tasted the silence on my tongue. Relief was a button push away. As a way to explain I said, “I’d just like to enjoy some quiet right now. I hope you don’t mind.” He didn’t mind, and he didn’t know his music bothered me. For some reason it was worse than bothering me. It really pissed me off. What’s the matter with me?

The days of summer are going so fast. That bothers me. One thing that doesn’t bother me is the high temperature. It’s bothering our little pup though. She’s a shade seeker and her tongue hangs out. Panting is her pastime, along with that shade seeking. Poor little girl. 

Something else is bothering me about summer. It’s no longer lazy and quiet around here like it once was.  Traffic and thousands of tourists begone. Go home. Can we just go back to the way it was, please? Back to when we moved here 13 years ago? What if I ask real nice? I’ll pay for it. How much would it cost to have my quiet, sweet, time back and all the tourists and part timers gone, gone, gone? They don’t even have to go away for good. Just for summer and part of October. 

Aging wouldn’t be so bothersome if it wasn’t accompanied by arthritis and gravity. I’ll say no more on the subject, except to say that the physical part of aging bothers me. Don’t worry, you’ll be old someday and then you’ll understand. You’ll be bothered too. I’ll put money on it.

I used to be 5’4” tall. It was a pretty nice to be 64” tall. It is not fun being 5’ and almost 2” tall. Most things are out of reach. Thank goodness someone invented step stools and ladders. My mother used to say, “You can just stretch for things. Stretching is good for you.” I used to hate it when she’d say things were good for me. Now it bothers me that she isn’t here to remind me of things like that. 

“Who took my pencils? I had four new ones in my can and now there’s only two.”

My husband pointed to one of them lying on my table. “There’s one. Right there on your art table.”

“Oh. That’s three accounted for. Where’s the other one?” 

“Maybe it’s in the kitchen. You’re sure grumpy lately, Susie.” 

“I know. Everything’s bothering me.” I should probably say I’m sorry, but I don’t want to say I’m sorry like que es mi culpa (It’s my fault) that everything’s bothering me nowadays.

In October I’ll be 77 years old. And guess what? That bothers me. 

I’m going to get back into meditation I guess. Nothing bothers me when I practice meditation faithfully. But to tell you the truth, I feel better already for having had this little rant.

Thanks for listening.

When I read or listen to the news, it’s hard to imagine there are any good people in this world. More and more the focus is on gun violence, hate crimes, and greedy rich people getting richer on the backs of others. The political environment provokes nausea in me. I want to scream, “Just stop. Stop this madness.” 

I sat stewing in misery about the state of the world one day and I got a horrific email from a friend telling me about one of my former colleagues who had just lost her 18 year-old daughter to an aneurysm. It was as if a scream emanated from deep inside me. “No, no, no!”

But it was true. 

The thing that haunts me more than anything is how decent and good and loving Chloe was. Why should she be the one to die?

In her 18 years she managed to bring happiness and smiles to hundreds of young people who suffered from mental and physical disabilities. Chloe championed inclusion. She was chosen as a youth ambassador to the Special Olympics in Washington State and in that capacity she was able to demonstrate to everyone that inclusivity is the way forward. Her work with challenged youth was her passion, and she had recently been accepted to the college of her choice and planned to become a special education teacher.  

Why should she be the one to die?

At her memorial service we heard stories of how her light shone on everyone she met. If a kid at her school was having a bad day, she’d stop and offer a kind word, a hug, a smile. And Chloe’s big, sunny smile was the reason her friends called her the Sunflower Girl.

Imagine a sunflower, and how every petal is bright and glowing around a center of the tiny black-brown disk flowers in the center, that grow in a spiral and mature into sunflower seeds. These seeds will make more flowers. Don’t we all get a little happy looking at a tall sunflower? And a field of them fills us all with joy, right? 

Well, that’s what our Sunflower Girl did. She worked with young people who needed to feel seen. Who wanted to fit in. Whose hearts were aching to be included. And Chloe showed us how to make that happen.

Her voice will continue to be heard. Her light will continue to shine. She planted the seeds of inclusion so that we would find a way to offer ourselves to the task in big and small ways. When we are confronted with someone who may feel only “otherness,” we can offer our hands, our smiles, our hearts, our time.

Let’s be the good people we wish to see in this world. Let’s be like Chloe, the Sunflower girl, and choose to include.   

not cohesive in our togetherness

we are accepted outsiders 

using illiterate knowledge for an unorganized plan

where stationary travel leads to ecstatic lethargy

in this delicate crude world

of our unreliable steadfastness

is that a deepness rising in your heart?

an unpromised pledge of yesterday’s future? 

i steadily fall into an awkward grace 

like a sadness of pleasure in my satiated hunger

and oh! what oblique straightforwardness

is this playful work we do

me with my basket brimful of nothing 

where I carry my separate belonging

and ever so slowly we speed to discover

a calm excitement—hidden in our perfect flaws

unrevealed we materialize—familiar strangers

cruising through the traffic jams of our lives

Already by 27 years, I had 3 sons and had gone through 2 husbands (one more husband—a keeper—would come later). I still had good looks too for all that, but I only know this looking back at pictures.  At the time, I had so many neuroses their number was longer than my grocery list. It never occurred to me then that I was a hottie. Brought to mind is that cliché about youth being wasted on the young.

My cocktail waitress uniform showed off my good figure. This I did know. The restaurant’s cocktail lounge had live music, and I suppose it was considered a top-notch hang-out for the 30ish crowd. The restaurant was a favorite for seafood lovers, from locals to tourists, and it started out as a fun place to work, although I was always sad to have to leave my boys and make the drive to the waterfront some 20 miles from home. When it was busy, which was all summer, those work hours were no time for pining over missing the kids. I made good money. In some ways it was good to be around people whose conversations did not include, “He started it!” and, “Mom! Make him quit it!” At least most of the time it was good. In the beginning.

There wasn’t a day that my feet didn’t hurt. My back and legs ached all the time too. The music was loud and it was crowded. The band played the same sets night after night. Same songs, same order, same, same, same. Walk to a table, smile, take an order, run back to the bar, get in line to scream in my order. Garnish the drinks, pay the bartender for them, pile them onto my tray, squeeze my way through the isle to the table to plunk down the drinks. Plunking was what I wanted to do. In the actual sense, I carefully placed them, and of course smiling brightly.

Whining customer: “Where’s the strawberry for my strawberry margarita?” 

All the strawberries are moldy and soft you stupid bitch, or I would have put one on your stupid, fruity, lame excuse for a drink.

 “So sorry. The garnishes are not looking so good, but when they bring out some fresh ones I will be sure to get you a nice one.” 

And I’ll smash it right into your face. 

Here’s a sweet, strawberry smile for you in the meantime.

In those days, people could smoke in public places. The place filled with smoke and my nasal passages filled with scabs. My allergies kept me forever feeling sick. Some nights brought out the ugly in many of the inebriated customers. You know the type. Arrogant, can’t be pleased, think waitresses are a low form of life to be verbally and physically abused. The particularly rotten ones think waitresses are meant to be fondled. Shamelessly fondled. There is nothing like a drunk with octopus arms who fancies himself a Casanova, slurring his disgusting overtures in your face, reeking of the garlic from his dinner.  

I would drag myself home around 3AM, catch a few hours of sleep before the kids woke me with their kisses and their demands. I needed sleep, but instead I was Mommy on duty. Maybe I’d get a nap later in the day before making the trek back to work. Exhaustion would soon set in. My patience was worn so thin it snapped like dry kindling in a fire.

After a particularly stressful, busy night when nothing was going smoothly or right, a big party of young couples was drinking and whooping and hollering in my station. I’d been waiting on them for over an hour and one of the guys was particularly obnoxious. He couldn’t keep his hands off me and his off-color remarks were ringing in my ear when I went charging down the aisle to the bar. Without any hesitation and with concentrated purpose, I carefully loaded my tray with dirty glasses and filled them with soda,  splashes of coke for color, stir sticks, straws, and lots of garnish—cherries, limes, mint—I made them look like a fresh order, and off I went back to the creep who had met, and exceeded, his quota for tastelessness. 

It was easy. I fake tripped and all the glasses slid off my tray spilling down his chest and stomach onto his lap. Sarcastically as possible I said, “Oh my! I’m so sorry. Let me help you.” With that I produced a filthy bar rag and began dabbing his shirt. His entourage stood up and actually applauded me.  Mr. Big Mouth was silenced, and lo and behold there was a big tip on the tray for me when they finally left.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought he’d said too much. 

The Reuben E. Lee Restaurant on Harbor Island in San Diego, CA, is where these cocktail waitress stories evolved. The restaurant finally became unsafe in 2004, and after being towed away to the San Diego Bay close by the Coronado Bridge it took on water and sunk.

. Read about it, if you like: https://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/sdut-iconic-reuben-e-lee-restaurant-sinks-in-bay-2012dec14-story.html

1.

Living on the Shores of the Pacific

It’s not merely the waves

or the sun or the sand

It’s more than the spray

or the crash or the splash

It’s not only the sparkle

or the rocks or the fish

It’s the wonder of it all

A whipped cream of an ocean dance

With the vapors and song of the shore

———–

2.

Peaches

From high upon a wooden shelf,

I lift a can of peaches.

Juices meant to savor later,

while tucked inside my feasting bed. 

Now licking sugar from my fingers,

I am startled by the truth: 

Your sweet syrup is my craving—its

candy meant for spilling on my tongue.

---

3.

in the snow

but all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty

finds strength in the sight of children playing in the snow

their shrieks from the sled as they brave the hill

their bobbing and ducking from snowballs

who among us has not wept with empty pockets seeking joy

as the view from the top of the slope cracks open our hearts?

the days come quicker now; aches and caution greet us

we never knew before about staying steadfast in our waking time

we were filling our minds with dreams of frozen fingers clinging too long

to the snowy childhood memories of riding by the seat of our pants

---

Maybe I’m biased. I wrote these. Happy New Year.

I saw Elvis Presley in a library once

He was chewing gum

I don’t know what flavor it was, bubblegum maybe?

How many times I’ve gone back to that library

I haven’t counted

But I never saw Elvis there again

Instead, I found books about World War II

And one about how to make a tent out of nature’s gifts

I might use that information in the forest someday

Once in a while I go to the library just to breathe

It’s noisy in the world and I need quiet

Breathing in the silence makes me whole

There are so many subjects and so many writers

The pains authors  go through must be tremendous

All so we can sit with their words for awhile

A big, bright room filled with the smells of books

Mingling with the whiff of ages past

The library houses new beginnings for us

Maybe Elvis Presley needed a new beginning

Or maybe he was hiding from the noisy world

I guess Elvis and I had something in common

He might have been nothing but a hound dog

Crying all time

But one day I saw him in the library chewing gum

Remembering how I came to get my first bra…

Standing naked in the shower after gym class, there’s no hiding the fact that I am breast-less. With all eyes on me, I’m certain everyone is laughing at my flat chest. I stare at my nipples. All I have are these little nipples. No bumps or swelling where the breasts are supposed to be. Why can’t I have boobs like Betty’s? I’d even settle for smaller ones like Patsy’s.

Later that Tuesday in the courtyard after lunch, Betty yells at me, “Hey Susie, why don’t you have any boobs?” She asks me that question in front of about fifty million girls. My hands clench into fists. I run to the restroom. Rocking back and forth, alone in a stall, I hear my best friend, Karen, rushing in, no doubt, with the sweet intention of comforting me. I scream at her to leave me alone. What does she know? She has breasts. Maybe they aren’t as big as Betty’s, but they are respectable. Covering my face with my hands I pray, Oh dear God! Swell my breasts. Please?

It isn’t until five days later, right after church, that I muster the courage to ask Mom to take me shopping for a bra. “Really?” she asks.

“Yes, Mom! Please?”

“Sure honey. How about next Saturday?” Her quick response and knowing smile assure me she understands.

I’m counting the days. Little else seeps into my head during the week. Hurry Saturday! Blessed Saturday! It’s similar to, maybe better than, waiting for Christmas morning.

And then the unthinkable happens on Thursday: Richard sits down next to me as I begin unpacking my lunch. I don’t particularly like him, but he’s one of the cool guys and it feels good to know he wants to eat lunch with me. Karen is absent today. I think she has the Asiatic Flu; it’s going around. So it’s just Richard and me.

I grab the apple from my small, brown bag, but I put it aside because I’m saving it to eat after I finish the half sandwich Mom packed. Oh, yum. Baloney and cheese with lettuce. The lettuce is tinged with brown around the edges, but it’s fine with me. Warmed by the morning San Diego sun, Richard and I talk easily between bites, which surprises me a little. Things are going well when just as I’m finishing my sandwich, Richard drops this bomb: “Now I know why you’re so flat-chested, Susie,” he says matter-of-factly, “You only eat half a sandwich.”

What? No! No! No! He did not just say that to me. My body collapses in on itself. Making matters worse, I imagine that the whole world has heard this zinger.

One of the cool guys has just broken my 7th grade heart with his words. All the color leaves my face. I break eye contact with him. My silence is louder than anything I could say. Richard, obviously uncomfortable, waves to a friend, tells me he’ll see me later, and goes off to join the noisy group of boys moving together like a school of sharks. Clutching my flat chest, I can hardly breathe. Fine! Go on, you creep. I vow never to speak to him again.

After what seems like forever, the sting from his words begins to diminish. I inhale deeply and refocus my thoughts onto the shopping trip. Saturday can’t come soon enough.

When the big day arrives I awake earlier than usual. I’m not sure what I expect from getting this sacred garment—a bra—but I am convinced there is magic involved. On that Saturday, in the store’s lingerie department, I move in close to the long rows of padded bras. Because I am afraid to touch them, I plant my feet and stare. Images of what could be swirl in my head.

From the corner of my eye I see Mom shaking her head. I know what she is thinking. Susie, it would be as if one day you were as flat as a pancake, and the next day you were as voluptuous as Sophia Loren. Of course. If she buys me the padded bras I’ll have to begin a new school on Monday.

The bras Mom and I finally pick out are all white, in soft cotton, with just a tiny touch of lace on the upper portion of each cup. Well, cup is the official word. My first bra cups, however, resemble something more like teaspoons. In fact, unofficially these little garments are referred to as training bras. So it is with a new, bright outlook that I whisper to my chest, “Guess you girls are my breasts in training.”

In the end, Mom and I settle on three bras—all size 28 triple A. And while bras may not come any smaller, the one I’m wearing provides a huge supply of much needed self-confidence. Shoulders back, head held high, chest proud; I am glowing from the inside-out, as I enter the holy rite of passage into womanhood.