The Lucky One

Sometimes, it just hits me.

I look around my apartment and I want to hug it.

I think about who I used to be, and how I let myself get boxed into a very tiny little life, and how painful it was to suddenly be released from that box when I didn’t know how to be myself anymore.

And I want to sing and dance around a little, so I do.

Whenever I want to.

Or I simply sit and listen to the wind chimes I hung outside and think, “I am so lucky.”

I am lucky.

Five years ago, if you had told me I was lucky, I probably would have wanted to punch you. I didn’t know I was lucky then, you see. I was tentative, hesitant. Like a zoo animal that had been released from captivity, I was afraid. You get used to the bars, and when they’re gone? You don’t quite know what to do. At least, I didn’t. So many choices. So many OPTIONS. I didn’t want them. I would have happily retreated back into the cage I was used to calling home.

That would have been a mistake.

I know that now.

That makes me lucky.

The fact that I am surrounded by things I love, by people I love?

That makes me lucky too.

It also hits me that there are a lot of people who are not lucky. You might know one, though it’s highly possible that you don’t know it.  Someone who is being boxed in.  Someone who isn’t allowed to dance and sing in her joy.

You can help her.

I know, because people helped me. They listened to the things I did say and the things I didn’t. They were there. They didn’t preach to me, they didn’t yell at me, they didn’t snap their fingers in front of my face or demand. They just let me know they were there for me and waited me out, and when I was ready? They helped me pack. They held my hand. They let me cry and made me laugh and reminded me that I hadn’t forgotten how to sing and dance with happiness.

Like I said, I’m lucky.

We should all be so lucky.