There are a lot of ugly ducklings around, a lot of people who feel flawed and different and who long to fit in but just … don’t: People who prefer one-on-one conversations to large groups. People who like solitude.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m just not that into Christmas this year. I don’t want a tree, I’m not interested in buying presents; I just want to curl up with a book and be quiet.” My client looked at me half expectantly, half sheepishly.

Here’s a holiday pop quiz: Do you remember what you received for Christmas last year? Do you remember what you gave? Me either.

How do you get through a festive season when you're not feeling festive at all? If you are in the midst of grief, the holidays can be an especially tough time. Mourning a loss during this season of joyful celebration is an exercise in endurance and suffering.

What do Donald Trump, a trip to Costco, and my dog have in common? More than you might imagine. A strange confluence of events culminated this morning in a surprising, personal revelation.

As I look back over all the essays and blogs I’ve written, I’ve never once addressed the subject of loneliness, which is really rather strange since loneliness is epidemic in our culture, and since I’m on very familiar terms with it myself.

I seldom do what I’m about to do, which, I hope, will make what follows jump out at you and grab your bathrobe.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. Not the When Harry Met Sally sort, or the infatuation/lust/heartbreak/revenge tedium on the radio that makes my 10-year-old daughter ask, with a look of pure nausea and disgust on her face, “Why are all the songs about love?”

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.