Holding a complete sense of self is something like a trip to the grocery store, where I think, “I’ll just get few things, I don’t need a basket.” Then I end up in the 15-items-or-less check out lane with an armful of groceries acting out the slapstick vaudeville show of “Oops. Sorry. Crash!”
On those days when I can’t seem to remember that I’m innately loveable I take a mental inventory: my friends, family, and even clients who love me. I pull my them together in my head, like I’m stacking my childhood beloved stuffed toys about me. Their reflections, even when they’re not with me, the mirror that shines light into the temporarily dark corners of my psyche.