Lessons from a Year of Healing, the Wisdom of the Marys, and the Grace of Growing Older

One year ago, on my July 7 birthday, I spent what was, in many ways, one of the hardest days of my life.

My heart was behaving strangely. I could barely walk more than a few steps without needing to stop, and by afternoon I found myself lying quietly in bed, wondering what was happening inside my own body.

Medical testing ultimately provided no definitive answers. In the absence of certainty, I had to do something that is often more difficult than finding a diagnosis: I had to listen.

I listened to my body.

I dramatically reduced my cacao practice and set aside many of the sacred medicines that had long been companions on my spiritual path. I stopped trudging up hills as part of my exercise routine. I lightened my workload. Instead of asking my body to keep serving my ambitions, I began asking what it needed from me.

It was not an easy lesson.

Yet this year, on my birthday, I found myself once again sitting with a cup of ceremonial cacao ~ not out of necessity, but in celebration. I offered gratitude for my heart, for healing, for the loving presence of Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene, whose path has always been one of compassion. Today my heart feels strong again. Perhaps it has fully healed. Whatever the case, I know that I have.

The Marys continually remind me that the heart is not simply an organ. It is the dwelling place of love, courage, grief, forgiveness, and the deepest knowing of the soul. Sometimes the most sacred healing is not learning how to push forward, but learning how to soften.

Interestingly, this past year has brought another kind of healing as well.

Quite unexpectedly, I have reconnected with several women I have not seen in nearly thirty years ~ a college roommate, a dear friend from my years in the Boston area, women with whom I once shared profound spiritual circles.

Seeing them again felt like opening a time capsule.

I recognized the beautiful personality structures that had always been there, now accompanied by decades of wisdom, tenderness, and life experience. Yet something else surprised me.

I discovered that some of the interactions I had quietly replayed in my own mind over the years ~ the moments I believed I had somehow mishandled or gotten wrong ~ were not remembered by these women quite in the way I had imagined. In fact, several synchronistically and out of the blue shared experiences that helped me realize I may have carried burdens that were never entirely mine to carry.

I found myself wondering how many of us spend years judging ourselves far more harshly than anyone else ever has.

At the same time, I could not help but notice the visible passage of time.

The dark hair that had turned silver. The lines that had formed around beloved faces. Bodies that had changed shape. The unmistakable signs that every one of us is moving through the same mysterious passage… and will one day no longer walk the earth in these particular vestments.

For a brief moment, I remembered each woman exactly as she had been decades ago. And, resist as I may, I realized something humbling. Surely, despite my years of bodily and facial care, they were seeing the very same changes in me.

When we are young, many of us live as though we somehow own this world ~ as though our bodies will always carry us effortlessly and time will never betray us. But perhaps maturity teaches something quieter: We are visitors here.

If we want to live well, our task is not to resist the passing of time, but to meet it with grace. Perhaps this has been my heart’s deepest lesson over the past year.

To become gentler with my body. To become kinder toward my younger self. To release old judgments that no longer deserve residence in my heart. To honor the changing faces of those I love ~ and my own ~ as beautiful evidence of lives fully lived.

The Marys have always taught that love is not measured by perfection, achievement, or even longevity. It is measured by the openness of the heart.

As another year of life begins, I find myself praying for only one thing: May my heart continue to grow softer.

For I am beginning to realize that this, more than anything else, is what true healing looks like.