When I was giving birth to my daughter, there came a point—about twelve hours into my unmedicated, at-home, every-90-seconds-a-contraction back-labor odyssey—where I was done. I looked up at my midwife, bleary and exhausted, and said, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” She smiled, beatifically, and said, “Okay. Let’s do something else.”

The good thing about getting sick of yourself, of hitting a wall, is that it prevents further movement in that dead-end direction. It stops you. It also hurts, just to make the point very plain.

In the early summer of last year, my world became very small and quiet. A combination of illness and clients completing their work with me en masse left me feeling adrift at sea.

f you are one of those lucky people who knew who you were and what you wanted to do from the time you were seven years old, this column is not for you. Furthermore, I don’t ever want to talk to you and please don’t write me.

The night sea passage can be the space between an ill self and a healthy self, a nest gone empty, retirement, the loss of a loved one, or a failed business venture. Whatever the particulars, one is left feeling as though everything has crumbled and vanished. The night sea passage is not a booze cruise, my friends

I’m back, baby! And happy and grateful to be here. I took a little vacay from my column and blog and it’s good to be home. Thanks to all the lovely people who let me know I was missed and who expressed their appreciation for my writing. The truth is, I missed writing.

One of the most difficult things in the world is to know who you really are. I’ve spent half my life now getting to know who my Self is: the good, the bad, and the ugly. For over two decades I’ve  followed the Greek maxim inscribed at the Temple of Delphi: “Know thyself.” And I think I do. I think I’m a salmon.

Five hundred years ago cartographers, imagining what lay beyond the known borders of the earth, poetically wrote that beyond a certain point in the uncharted seas “there be dragons.”  Dragons are the mythological, metaphorical expression of our innermost fears; the sea they inhabit our unknown future.