I'm going to let you in on a secret: my purse is full of rocks.
It should only be full of one rock, a rock I took away from the wonderful boarding school I grew up at. Before they built a bunch of hideous mansion homes on it, generations of students lived there, went to class, rode horses and enjoyed other juvenile pursuits.
It was like Hogwarts with rodeo instead of magic.
I sometimes hold this rock in my hands when I feel doubt. You see, this rock is a physical connection to an earlier time when I had absolute confidence in myself and the world around me.
Today I'm not exactly a self-doubting shrinking violet but when I need a burst of confidence I hold my rock and imagine the warm Phoenix sun beating down on my face and the comfortable shape of Camelback Mountain.
But alas, when I cleaned out my purse yesterday I discovered not one rock but three, a bunch of hazelnuts and one fairly lame twig. And now I don't know which rock is my rock. I assume my kids snuck them in, because I'm definitely not the sort of person to go around putting rocks in my purse.
Well, OK, yes I am, but just the one.
I guess I'll be lugging around three rocks for the rest of my life.