Last week I missed my class. Mind you, class extends from 8:30 am to 4:30 pm, so is not easily made up. There was no clarification of what happens in this internship when we are absent, so my imagination had no restraints in elaborating. 

 

I was wary the night before, checking weather apps, and imagining the extra wool leggings I could bundle up in for my trek to the hospital. In the morning my anxiety mounted with the snow, as different schools called for closures, and friends on social media warned about the road conditions. John actually drove me to the train, rather than me taking myself, in an effort to ease my fears. But when I stood at the platform, imagining the slippery sidewalks waiting for me, I burst into tears. 

 

I turned back. 

 

The exhale I felt driving home was deep, and the chance to luxuriously stay home was a blessing. I wrote my apologies to the directors, and said I would not be coming in. 

 

I suppose it was from penance that I felt renewed willingness to take on tasks that sometimes get ignored. I did a sewing job that had been stuck in purgatory, and took out the recycling. Usually Ben does that, but my spirit was hungry for chances to give back. If any solicitors had knocked that day seeking donations for abandoned dogs, I probably would have caved, but they were staying home too. Or were out rescuing puppies. 

 

There is something that eludes description, when I have failed someone, which fuels my willingness to compensate. 

 

There is a place for fulfilling my commitments, and giving myself a shiny star. But the humility that seeps in when I realize that I am not the hero I imagined is part of my path too.