Within each person is a holy place called The Self. It is here, in the deepest recesses of who each of us is, that the human spirit, soul, and intellect meld, forming the powerhouse for who each of us is. And, the subtle art of self-care (“subtle” because there is a delicate difference between being self-caring, selfish, and self-serving) is fundamental to good mental, emotional, and relational health.

Appropriate self-care is neither selfish nor self-indulgent. It is not self-centered-ness. It is not self-serving. It is self-awareness. It’s self-monitoring, with the firm understanding that each person is responsible for the condition of his or her self. Each of us is responsible for how we relate to all others (to neither dominate or be dominated). Each of us is responsible, when it comes to ALL other adults, for maintaining relationships that exemplify mutuality, respect, and equality.

Part of self-care is the enduring understanding that each person has a voice to be respected, a role to be fulfilled, and a calling to be pursued. Every person (every Self) requires room to grow, space apart from others, while at the same time requiring intimacy and connection. The healthy Self is both connected and separate all at the same time, underscoring again the subtlety required in the art of self-care.

Until I was about seven and became too large for her to carry, I would ride tied with a blanket on our maid’s back. The movement, her melodies, and the safety of her broad back rocked me to sleep.

Pauline protected me. She was my mountain. She was “the girl”.

The little Zulu I know I learned from her and we’d bellow with laughter when I mastered a difficult word. She taught me her songs and our singing would end with her shrieks as she danced and clapped her hands and circled me with her joy.

Every afternoon Pauline shelled peas or peeled potatoes, preparing our family dinner, and enjoyed loud conversation with other maids gathered from nearby homes. Sewing, knitting, cleaning silver, and tending white babies, the community of women rocked their bodies in loud agreement.

In the middle of one night Pauline had to leave.

I remember the police vans and the men in blue uniforms and her things strewn out on the lawn for everyone to see.

“She has to go,” Mother said, “I cannot have a thief living on my property.”

Among the items on the grass Mother had identified a blanket, a cup, and a handful of beads.

“Yes, we cannot have a thief living on our property,” I agreed.

And because my parents decided to bring no official charge against her she left walking off into the night carrying her things.

We never looked at each other.

Then again, you cannot have a thief living on your property.