The other day I was in the car with a new-ish friend. Let's call her Sarah. She drives a zippy, spiffy little car and lives in San Francisco. She's an artist. As I write this, she is at a film festival with her artistic daughter and her supportive husband. She's funny and smart and kind and I was telling her how delightful I have always found her and---here's the miracle part---there was no other layer to my feelings. Without complication or envy, I find her delightful. I delight in her.
It took me half a century to get here, but now, finally! Wow! Look at me! I'm a grown-up. Kind of.