The measuring stick

I had the privileged of visiting the place that seems to present itself as one of my measuring sticks for my recovery and my progress in life.

My personal progress.
The stuff that comes from the inside out.

It's the place I grew up in the summers.
My free place.
My vacation spot.
The spot I could relax in when I was growing up in a busy loud house.
The place I listened to Melissa Etheridge as an angsty teen.
The place I tried to discover boys.
The place I discovered girls.
The place I got to be alone.
And request my favorite meals.
The place I found depression.
The place I first hid my drinking.
The place I cut.
The place I was always loved. Always always always.
The place I never felt outside anger.
The place where the stars where stars danced and the air smelled different.
And the grass felt different while laying while star gazing.
I could go on.

This measuring stick place.
It's the place where I can tell when I have grown up a little more.
It's the place where I can see how my capacity for love has grown.
Where comparisons don't matter.
It's the place where, when I talk about what I am doing, I can tell how authentic it is.
I can tell how I truly feel about what I am saying when it is shared there.
It's the place where I get to check in with myself to see how real I am.

And guess what? I was thrilled with this visit's result.
This is big and it's gonna be fun.