When we last spoke, I had decided to surrender myself to the change that I felt was coming. I didn’t know what it was or how it would manifest itself, but I knew it was coming; I felt it bearing down on me like a freight train rattling down the tracks at full speed. And I was ready for it. I knew it was time. Here is what happened:

There is a person in my life whom I have become friends with under some fairly unusual circumstances. Despite some initial hesitation on both sides, we have felt continually drawn to speak to each other and our conversations have been nothing less than life-altering. We have found that the “unusual circumstances” that brought us into each other’s lives have given us the unique ability to offer healing in places where we both have some very deep wounds. During one of our many talks, it was suggested that I read the book A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson. I had heard of it before (I had even purchased it and stashed it on one of my highest bookshelves) but I had never gotten around to reading it. I had enough clarity to realize that perhaps this book had been suggested to me for a reason, so that night I pulled it off my shelf and decided to give it a try. With the sound of the freight train pounding in my ears, I figured I should say a quick prayer before I began.

“Hey there, God,” I said. “I don’t know who you are or if you even really care, but I wanted to let you know that I am listening. I have a feeling this book is going to change some things for me, and I wanted to make it clear that I’m paying attention. I’m ready to heal and I’m ready to change. Bring it on.”

Of course, that night was the beginning of the dramatic shift that has taken place inside my heart.

Although that book was an undeniable influence, the book itself isn’t what has changed me. What happened the night I said that prayer is that finally, finally I opened my heart enough to allow God to move on in and pitch his tent. I had been so shut down and paralyzed by fear, that no one- least of all God- was getting past these giant walls I had built up. I felt like a little broken wind-up toy. My paint was all rubbed off, springs were sticking out everywhere, and my wind-up key had fallen off long ago. I was useless, stuck, and very alone. Of course I was alone. I had become adept at avoiding intimacy on every level. I made sure no one would get close enough to see what a mess I had become. Boys and girls, this is a lonely, lonely way to live. What I want is connection. I crave relationships and people and, above all else, I crave love. There was barely any of those things in my life! Books don’t love you back. Cats love you as long as they know you’ll be feeding them soon. Kids love you all the time, but their preferred method of showing their love is through whining and the destruction of personal property. My cup was just plain empty. So I invited God in to see if maybe he could fill it up. And now I feel like the Grinch whose heart grew three sizes that day. I have been flooded with so much peace and awareness of the love that surrounds me, the love that I had been shutting out. I can see how God has used people in my life to save me and love me time and time again, and even more amazingly I can see how he has used me.

Not everything I have done on this earth has been great and altruistic. Probably none of it has. But there are times when I feel God’s love working through me so fully that my blood turns electric and my skin virtually crackles with the power of it all. I remember, for instance, turning sixteen. I was in rehab, rooming with three other girls from various parts of the country. We were all far from home, away from our families and the lives we knew. All four of us were so young, and so very scared. Nighttime was rough. We weren’t allowed to speak or leave our beds after the lights had been turned off, and each night found one or more of the four of us crying quietly into our pillows. One night, for no reason at all, I decided to sing to them. It became a ritual after that, the three of them laying there quietly while I sang until I knew the last one had fallen asleep. If I didn’t feel like doing it, they begged me to until I gave in. I sang them everything, from lullabies to show tunes, and never once did they make fun of my sad, reedy little voice. They needed the comfort of my songs and our ritual as much as I needed to give it to them. It’s a little embarrassing, really, to say that I felt God on those nights. But I did. I felt God loving those girls through my voice, soothing them in the midst of such a frightening situation. And the woman who patrolled our hallway every evening, who normally stuck her head in the door with sharp rebukes when she heard so much as a whisper coming from our beds, never once told me to stop singing.

There is a famous quote from George Bernard Shaw that says, “I want to be thoroughly used up when I die. For the harder I work the more I live.” This rings a bell of truth deep within my heart. For me, peace comes through loving others. For me, fulfillment and joy come through being an instrument of goodness and light in this world. No matter how big or how small my actions are, as long as I am letting God love the world through me, then I am right where I am supposed to be. This change in me has come through the realization that if I allow myself to be open to love, every day will be full of little miracles. And that, boys and girls, is such a lovely, lovely way to live.

I was supposed to meet with my lawyer on Monday for a car accident I was in a few years ago- if you know me you’ll remember: Zibbit was very young and had cut her hand terribly, ending up in the ER. We were on our way home when we were rear ended by a Suburban, and our car was totaled. Monday’s meeting was supposed to determine the outcome from the insurance company so that I can finally settle my part of the medical bills from the accident. The meeting was canceled last minute, which was unfortunate because I felt very prepared. I had gone over my deposition the night before, I knew what I was going to say to the arbitrator, and I was ready for this to be over with. Hopefully it will happen soon.

While I was looking through my deposition, though, something caught my eye. The lawyer was asking me questions about my childhood, trying to get a feel, I suppose, for what kind of a person I am. She asked me about ballet. She knew that I had danced for years, but that I had stopped when I turned fourteen. She asked me why. The quick answer was that my interests changed (I didn’t mention that what really happened was that I found drugs and alcohol, and from that point on nothing else mattered to me), but it got me to thinking. Yes, I fell deeply into drug use at that age, and yes, it was such a powerful addiction that it took over my life… but I loved ballet. I loved to dance. Why did I let something so important slip away so easily?

My ballet school was in this old house in the middle of a residential neighborhood. I think it used to be some kind of town hall, a meeting place for the people that lived nearby, which makes sense because the place was huge. The main room was completely open, with windows lining two of the walls and mirrors propped up against a third. Three afternoons a week my parents would drop me off in the gravel lot out front, and I would climb the stairs and hurry into the dressing room, changing out of my school clothes and into my leotard. This was a terrible task during the winter months, because the building had a sketchy heating system that left the entire top floor freezing cold. The other girls and I would be huddled in the dressing room before class began, jostling for the prime spot in front of an electric space heater that buzzed violently, barely sending out enough heat to warm the air directly in front of it. We’d whine and moan instead of stretching our bodies, so that when we were finally called out for warm up exercises we would be fighting against our cold muscles, barely loose enough to get our legs up on the barre.

When I was old enough, my teacher told me I could start taking pointe class with the older girls, and Saturdays quickly became the best days. I remember everything about those classes: the way my new pointe shoes hugged my feet and ankles, the squeak and crunch of the rosin box that we stepped into before starting class, adding traction to the slippery satin toes. I remember the way the wood floor smelled like dust and violins. I loved the sound of the record player as it crackled between songs, and the echo of piano music off the bare white walls. I especially loved the way the sun poured in through the windows on the back side of the building, windows that overlooked an unkempt yard and a dozen neglected apple trees, and the way the dust would swirl with the movements of our bodies in the watery light that filtered through those old panes of glass. I felt so completely connected on those Saturdays. Connected to what I never knew, but whatever it was it was so big, so much bigger than me. And that filled me with the most profound sense of peace.

I think that what I felt then was a letting go of sorts. Everything that made me who I was at school and at home was stripped away, and I was just one of a handful of girls in a black leotard and pink tights, hair pulled off our faces and bodies moving in unison. Life was so frightening to me as a child. From as far back as I can remember I felt different and so scared. Being told how to stand and how to breathe and how to move my arms was such a relief, and when it all came together in a cohesive, beautiful dance… I felt like I belonged. And I think that maybe, that’s all you can really ask for in this world. To feel like you fit here, with the people around you and the place that you’re in. To feel like if you didn’t show up one day, you would be missed; your spot on the dance floor would be empty, with no one else waiting to fill the space you left behind. And, at the very least, to dance in an open room with the sun on your skin and the dust in your hair, an audience of ancient trees your only critics.

It is such a simple thing, belonging, and yet it’s a feeling I have been chasing ever since. The more I learn and the more I grow, the closer I get to feeling that way again. I’m only now starting to realize that I haven’t just stumbled into someone else’s life, struggling to fill their ill-fitting shoes. That peace is coming back to me, in fits and starts, and I can feel it slowly work its way through my body, easing the tension I hold at the base of my spine and loosening my clenched fists. I’ve spent a long time huddling in the darkness of a cold room, refusing to let go and stretch out, afraid of how much colder it might feel if I do. But I remember how I felt back then, bursting into the main room with the other girls despite our goose-pimpled skin, and just going for it. It would take only seconds for our blood to pump heat into our stiff fingers and toes, and before we knew it we were moving and fluid and beautiful. I have felt a change coming for awhile now, a shift of something inside of me that I know will make me stronger. I think it’s time to let it happen; to tear myself away from the security of the poorly heated dressing room, run out on the floor, and dance.