I’m back, baby! And happy and grateful to be here. I took a little vacay from my column and blog and it’s good to be home. Thanks to all the lovely people who let me know I was missed and who expressed their appreciation for my writing. The truth is, I missed writing.

When last we met I was bravely preparing to leave my familiar,  warm, cozy Hobbit hole and making bold statements about how one must have a goodbye in order to have a new hello and how it was high time that I found some new stimulation. Big talk, that.

It’s famously said that when the student is ready, the teacher appears. Sometimes, that teacher comes as a coyote in a pick-up truck.

Warning: This column has nothing whatsoever to do with Valentine’s, the Lunar New Year, or other such niceties. You may find it helpful, however, if Life has thrown you a few curve balls or wicked sinkers lately, which it has to me.

One of the most difficult things in the world is to know who you really are. I’ve spent half my life now getting to know who my Self is: the good, the bad, and the ugly. For over two decades I’ve  followed the Greek maxim inscribed at the Temple of Delphi: “Know thyself.” And I think I do. I think I’m a salmon.

A cell phone rang, and I watched in stunned disbelief as one of the mourners (and I use that term loosely) took the call. In an audible voice he engaged in a five minute conversation, graveside. I still have a bruise on my jaw where it dropped and hit the ground.

It’s counter-intuitive to take a blow without doing something, anything, to defend oneself. When your marriage is a mess or your body betrays you or you’re on a financial cliff edge, the tendency is to become two years old again and have a hissy fit.

Sometimes the Universe is not subtle. In the past eight weeks, I was privileged to watch three pairs of birds build their nests, lay their eggs, and fledge their young. At the same time, a half dozen monarch caterpillars joined our family and we’ve watched them grow and form glittering green chrysalises and emerge as beautiful butterflies.

“Time sure does fly, doesn’t it?” It’s what I think just about every day. Time is flying faster and faster. There must be something about picking up speed once you go over the metaphorical hill.

When I was a new mother, utterly and blissfully over the moon for my baby, I imagined that I would never feel anything less than that all-consuming, perfect love. It simply wasn’t possible.

I sat down in a good mood on a sunny Sunday morning to look at my email and there it was, lying in wait. The email was from a colleague who is in every respect my doppelgänger: same age, same work, same writing style, same graduate school, hair color, sense of humor—same everything. And on this fine morning, she sucker-punched me.

I don’t mean to burst anyone’s romantic bubble, but I thought a little education about the heart and the origins of Valentine’s Day might be of interest. An alternative, if you will, to the commercial sentimentality foisted upon us February 14 by Hallmark, Inc. and the Rose Growers Union 671.

Adrenal fatigue — the main symptom of which is unremitting and total exhaustion—is rampant in the U.S., especially among middle-aged women. I might have found this fact interesting in and of itself, but a recent and recurring bout with adrenal fatigue has caused me to pause, quite literally, to consider the nature of disease, its meanings, and our role in creating it.

The other morning I sat in the pre-dawn darkness on my porch, wrapped up against the cold, staring at the stars with their piercing, distant magnificence. I listened to invisible raccoons running through the trees, saw the inky outline of the branches bending under their weight. I heard the soft clopping of deer hooves, and then the owl’s resonant, echoing call in the middle distance.

Sitting inside the Full Moon Woo tarot tent, I stared at the cards representing the state of affairs in my little world. In the center of the spread was the Hanged Man — my current situation. I read up on the Hanged Man, and the sum and substance of it is this: perspective. As in, get a new one.

Everyone I know is going through some serious suffering. I’m not talking about the suffering one feels watching a Tom Cruise movie, or hearing the phrase, “I know, right?” I’m talking about suffering chronic illness, staring mortality in the face, losing a loved one, being in dire financial straits: in other words, Hell.

I’ve collected some very sage advice over the years,  far more than a 500-word limit would allow.  As Mark Twain famously observed, it takes a helluva lot more time to write a short piece than a long one; it requires that one be succinct, a thing that no self-respecting, egomaniacal writer likes to be.

You’ve heard someone say it. Heck, maybe you say it. “I’m spiritual but not religious.” But what the heck does that really mean?

Imagine yourself on a beach on a lovely summer’s day. You have spent the past few hours lovingly and painstakingly constructing a fantastic sandcastle, complete with moat and protective walls. You stand back admiring your work when you notice that the tide is coming in.

I’ve been exhausted for years. I’ve been low energy for so long that I began to think that it was just my “normal.” In fact, an acupuncturist I saw for my fatigue stated as much. “You were just born this way,” he said, like that was that.