Once I would step blindly and find myself plummeting into one abysm or another.
Now my feet root and draw nourishment from other soil entirely as my hands skim the surface of each murky pool, marveling at the way depths plead, tug at my fingertips, invite me to wallow again in emotional decadence.
This queer ache is nostalgia for sadness. My heart nearly breaks with it.
What startling joy it is to have no sorrow accompany the memory of loss, no bitterness ceaselessly strangling past injustice, no fuel to offer old fears.
Like any newly freed creature, it took a long time to uncurl enough to see the sky.