Our survival adaptations are so tough, but our wounds are so delicate. To heal, we have to lift the armor carefully. It saved our lives, after all. It's like moving your best friend off to the side of the path. You don't trample on her, you don't hit him with a sledgehammer. You honor her presence like a warm blanket that has kept you safe and sound during wintry times. And then, when the moment is right, you get inside and stitch your wounds with the thread of love, slowly and surely, not rushing to completion, nurturing as you weave, tender and true. The healing process has a heart of its own, moving at its own delicate pace. We are such wondrous weavers...