But finally I got it: I could make my own holiday season without family, college classmates, or mentors. I could even uncouple myself from the bizarre intense bonds with those who torment us. Incidentally, the term for that is "masochistic attachment."
It was in November 2003 that my biological sister, Anne Murga-Ring, and I last spoke. And that same disruption would happen with most of the relationships with the old crowd. As well as enemies.
My world had changed. But it would be some time before I caught up with that. Now I have.
The year 2003 was the worst of times. But, of course, those times never last forever. We learn. Or we die.
The most recent useful book on that is Pema Chodron's "Fail Fail Again Fail Better." Her worst of times was when her second husband left her. Long story short, she became a Buddhist nun and best-selling author.
To my surprise, I didn't die. I saw my dog and five cats through their natural lives. I started two new businesses. I moved west and back east. I embrace mindfulness daily. I adopted a rescue dog. I made new kinds of friends.
Not that this holiday season has been without emotional bumps. Last week I sought a bit of professional health. I also contacted a brandname psychic. This week hope has returned.
The best part? I can wish those from the past, even the Grinch type with garlic in the soul, well. By that I mean greatest gift of all: inner peace.
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