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arrives with a thump on the doorstep. Carving it open (and ignoring for the moment how good it feels to gash something with a sharp knife), I remove what looks like four empty vessels from a puddle of packing peanuts. Holding each of the brown bottles up to my bedside lamp, I finally spot something the size of a grain of sand rolling around inside each one.
    I unfold a note that I find in the box. Alyssa says homeopathy treats “like with like.” Thus, Nat-Mur is liquefied grief. And Staphysagria is bottled, bottled-up rage. I can’t decide which remedy to mix and take first. At the moment, all I feel is lethargy, and my thoughtful friend hasn’t sent along a remedy for that.
    Also in her note, Alyssa directs me to the work of legendary family therapist Virginia Satir. A male friend recently introduced her to Satir’s books and brought her to meet the director of Boulder’s Peoplemaking institute, where counselors employ Satir’s method and teach her work. “It’s magical stuff,” she tells me. “It seems to really transform people. Satir thought the family is a microcosm. Once you’ve healed the family, you know how to heal the world.”
    That afternoon, my sister calls to say she’s been fired from her job at a women’s shelter.
    â€œWhy?” I ask.
    Because her boss instructed her to stay late. And she’d told him no, she’d stayed late two weeks in a row. He said that if she didn’t stay, she might as well go and clean out her desk.
    â€œAnd how did you respond?” I ask.
    â€œI basically laid down and died while he berated me and told me what a worthless employee I was! I wish I could have told him what I really think! I would have loved to call him a balding, fascist prick, to tell him that he ran that place like a Nazi death camp!” She sounds breathless. Her voice is booming like a brass instrument.
    â€œHow do you do that?” I ask her.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGet angry like that? Go ballistic? Have a shit fit, or whatever you call it?”
    â€œIt’s easy,” she says.
    â€œTeach me.”
    I tell her it’s an instrument of survival. Without it, I’m a sitting duck out here.
    â€œWell, when the Lark was fighting with you the night you broke up . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWhat was the first thought that occurred to you?”
    â€œI thought, ‘You’re right. I’m horrible. I can hardly bear to look at myself.’ I thought, ‘Everything you’ve ever said about me is true.’”
    â€œ Wow,” she says. “That’s really fucked up. I don’t know what to do with that.”

4
    In Buddhism, there’s a popular piece of advice that says that when a man insults you, think on the subject. If his criticism doesn’t apply, you should ignore the abuse. But on the flip side, if the good man has you pegged, you should thank him for calling attention to your failings and set about the business of improving yourself.
    Nearly every religion devotes some attention to anger. In their book Anger: The Struggle for Emotional Control in America’s History , Peter N. and Carol Zisowitz Stearns assert that Christianity and Judaism take “a middle position on the subject of anger.” In further reading I found more proof that although Christianity generally considers anger a sin, it also allows for a loophole called “righteous indignation” or “justified anger,” which William Leslie Davidson describes as “the right to abhor, and to give expression to our abhorrence of, injury and injustice, cruelty, impiety, and wrong.” Judaism also contends that anger at the sight of a wrongdoing is holy. According to the Torah, “A wrathful man stirs up discord, but he that is slow to anger appeases strife.” The emotion is misguided only if it kindles temper, which supposedly gives way to recklessness.
    The Stearnses suggest there is