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to write  a life’s story, especially at the age of 52, is daunting, at the very least.  beside the obvious questions geared toward the outward thoughts, (such as who would be interested, etc), there’s the arduous task of sitting through and sifting through what i’ve already lived.  is it really necessary to dredge all that up and if so, why- ugh – so these are some of the things that has kept me from my passion.

that written, sitting here, right now, in this moment, with a pen in my hand as it glides across this paper, i am home again.

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