The surprise package and note came from a friend who had sheltered me at her sanctuary in Hawaii many years ago. It started this way: “This letter has been in process for a very long time.” She expressed appreciation for my observations. She told me that she shares copies of my writings with friends. She described the incident that moved her to contact me. She’s tending her garden–palms lit by the sun; cooing doves the morning soundtrack–when she hears the spirituality and poetry of Mark Nepo and quotes this line back to me: “It’s not the disease. It’s what the disease opens.”

I couldn’t track down that particular talk, but I immediately recognized the truth, the reframe I’ve spent decades doing in my head. I am not my disease. But I am profoundly different because of it. Opened, even. To frustration and vulnerability. To abuse and mischaracterization. To kindness and concern.

Her letter opened me. I never expected to receive it. I never expected to write. I never expected anyone to be changed by something that I said. I never expected to be this open. At first I thought of myself as gutted.

Then different. But now I’m claiming open. I’m open. And that’s not always an easy thing. But here’s what that open has yielded: authentic friendships and satisfying work, a stream of interesting encounters with strangers, a parade of teachers who have shaken and shaped me.

And now this openness has led me to another realization perfect for the season. I have returned the favor granted to me by my teachers. I, too, have had a positive impact. It didn’t come from cloistering myself and reading great books, though I don’t knock that strategy. It didn’t spring from a traditional classroom. It came from a profound shift in how I present myself to the world. On wheels, yes, but fully present. Alert to what I see around me. Like many gifts, it was born out of pain. I was the kid who struggled. I was the kid least likely to succeed as a student. I’m not sure that this blog can be called success, but when I read responses, it feels nothing short of miraculous. That I got here. That I could try to explain. That readers would not only listen but feel changed.

And that’s the miracle, the blessing, that a learning-disabled, hyper-kinetic kid could transform into a wheelchair-riding man with something to say.