Eleven, and a Few

 Herself speaks.

It's been eleven years (plus a few days) since the Unmooring. I saw the anniversary of the day approaching, felt its presence creeping ever closer -- and yet, I did not dwell on it. It washed over me and moved past, like a comet in the night sky, silently moving in its annual orbit. I continued my work, and my Work, knowing that it will be back in another year.  Like solstice or equinox, rainstorms or blowing winds, it's just another fixture in the passing of the seasons. 

I have reached a point where the appearance of the Unmooring no longer carries with it that grief which once brought me to my knees.  I have been changed. I cannot go back. The sorrow is etched and the scars remain, but I can no longer choose to reopen the wounds. To tend to myself, I must let all the feelings of the Unmooring drift away.

One step at a time, on I go.