Someone was writing about vulnerability. You know— that place you live? Consciously or unconsciously, you dwell within the nothingness of love. For once love has become something, it can be taken from you (and will be.)

My daughter entered the nothingness in 1978 and I have not heard from her again. I used to picture her coming back and living with me again. I would stroke her hair and rock her to sleep. Absence makes me vulnerable.

We feel vulnerable any time we love.

White space is the source of all I write.

Everything else is noise.

My husband entered the fullness of nothingness in 2004. The tsunami of that loss swept my old life away. Vulnerable again.

I still picture him coming back through the door, moving his clothes back into the closet. But he hasn’t showed up yet.

We feel vulnerable any time we love.

As Bob was dying, I learned to write and write and write to fill up the white space of his absence.

Swami  Z popped in suddenly and filled the white space with purple and orange and green.

He is still here because there is no place he can go.

Unless I write him out of the picture. But who would want to do that?

Swami knows how much vulnerability it takes to write a book about an invisible guru. He is very proud of me for that.