I spend more time in coffee shops than in bed.

I love train tracks.

I was minding my own business, looking for things to take pictures of, when I walked in someone else's footprints.

Thank you, world.

Our blood sings the private song of I am alive when we move. Our bones thank us by becoming stronger. 

I am grateful for white shirts.

Eating gratitude. 

Mrs. A is a force. Fifteen years ago she went to the Fancy Food Show in San Francisco, a woman with a cooler of homemade salsa, and she was awarded one of the top ten out of eighty thousand participants.

I'm grateful I get to spend the rest of my life telling you how great I think you are. We are bits of sunlight, celebrating source. 

The best classrooms are like cliffs, pushing you to the edge of how you see yourself and the world so you can experience life even more deeply and widely.

I blogged every day for three months. I got the perfect poop. I quit drinking coffee. I lost some weight (not one of the goals, but I bought a belt). I went surfing with Frosty Hesson (or, really, I lay on a board and Frosty pushed me into a gentle swell). All of these things were ways to help me to believe I am valuable; I am safe; I am lovable; I am real.

I was afraid. Worst case, a rogue wave was going to come screaming in from Japan and take me down and under and kill me.