When I began this journey toward my Self, I was an innocent in many respects. Responsible beyond my years, yet repressed, compressed, regressed, like the tightest pussy willow — the one with the hardest shell — protection for my fuzzy, fertile possibility. Eventually, the storms of change and loss that I faced during my tumultuous maternal years had weathered my once-sumptuous bloom. Like many women of a certain age, I had gradually, imperceptibly almost, let myself go, like an overblown...
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