Touche John Donne, Touche.

by Joy Monger

It’s been said that no man is an island. I tend to disagree.

But then I got some bad news the other night and fell apart all over the best friend. The next day I apologized profusely and expected that she should chide me for acting all uncivilized and blubbery, and perhaps for getting snot on her car seat. But instead she thanked me for letting her into the inner workings of my heart.

(I’m so happy she is my friend.)

The next day my bonus Dad, mom and kid-sister’s boyfriend spent their whole Sunday vacuuming rotted leaves and prehistoric worms out of my pond, chopping wood, reaching things that were taller than me and other general homesteading acts as assigned. It was like a modern-day barn raising.

(I am so happy they are my family.)

And today I asked my posse for rides to and from the airport and they said yes. They said yes to a round trip drive to the airport when they could spend that precious time doing something else infinitely more interesting.

(I am so happy they are my posse.)

I’m known for keeping people at arms’ length (anything closer than that feels all stiflely and scary) and trusting or asking for help is really, really difficult for me. But lately I’ve got this amazing group of people who make me want to move off the island and consider a time share in their safety nets.