We silence ourselves in clever and complicated ways, and while getting to silence is the whole point of meditation, silence in a life that never got to fully express itself is a tragedy. 

I love looking at my pictures. I think they are beautiful. They are like little love affairs: I saw you. They are also like little prayers: thank you for existing. 

The very best part though, was last night. I was on the phone and I was talking my head off and I realized the fog I am often talking through was not there. My eyes and head felt clear. It was marvelous.

If I hadn’t made this 93-day thing public, I’d have a mouth full of muffin right now and then tomorrow I’d spend the day with an aching stomach. 

So, thank you for being here. As it is, I have lentil breath and my guts are…calm. 

There is something so joyful and right about being aware that you are in your body. It’s this little prayer you can do, welcoming you into the church of you.

We don’t need to apologize for who we are or how we feel. If anyone asks, we’re on a mission.

I look forward to making a mess with you the next 93 days. We’ll clean up later.

Settle in. This might take a while.

Your answers matter. 

Fear tells us No. Stop. You are better off at home, on the couch, watching Chef’s Table. Now, maybe that information is helpful if you are doing something illegal that is going to get you thrown into jail, but maybe you don’t care about jail and you really, really want to rob a bank. You have to find a way to override Brother or Sister Fear who knows how to bring you to your knees even when you are driving.

My secret hope was that I could write myself home. I could run the bases and slide into home plate by writing a book. It would have my name on the cover. It would say I am here. I am valuable. I have a voice. 

I have to make some changes. It’s really hard for me to focus or to get anything done, and this isn’t helpful because I need to get my act in gear and find a place to live. I have been living off the kindness of friends ever since I came back from writing You Don’t Look Adopted in New York (where I still was two years ago today), and it’s time I support myself. 

I just don’t know how to do it.

How can you live on the tracks of a life that feels really yours when you were derailed at the start? How can you spread roots when someone tore them out at the beginning and you keep tearing them out because it’s what you know?

My friend Pam asked me how it felt to finish writing my book. Generally I say I finished my book when I left New York, but that isn’t exactly true. I say that because it’s easier than saying I was pretty much finished except that I didn’t have an ending.