Leonard Cohen speaks of becoming the work itself. In that, I also find effortless being emerging. The me that brought in the groceries is not the me that writes to you on a daily basis. The fine line is somewhere; I just haven’t seen it clearly enough to put it into words.

Everyone knows what they like and are good at. For me, it is the point in the day where I address myself to the pointing pixels. I try to discover who I am when I am not focusing on groceries, meals, cold fronts coming in, etc.

I remain an unknown quantity when I write. Winter air dries out my skin and sinuses and I feel a lethargy borne of solitude. Not enough people in my life in cold weather. I went to the mall yesterday and had lunch. That was therapeutic.

Who is it that actually runs my life and why can’t I get it through her head that she is good enough as she is?

Where is the energy located that prompts me to write intimate words to strangers that also feel alienated from what is truly important.

My grief has grown strange feelings in me over a period of many years. Like my grandmother, who lost 2 little boys, my feelings of loss are quite real. They are spread over a lifetime of trying to accommodate them while not being drowned in the process.

But now I am drowning in a sea of grace. The waves are whipping up a storm and I am clinging to the words that I type before I die to myself. That will be a sunny day on a calm sea. Or never. Who knows?

I had cheese toast for lunch and it tasted heavenly. I am easy to please on some basic level. I just want to know why I fear my own psychic death and why I cannot engineer it. The hints are on the box I came in but they are written in a different language. And there is never a receipt.

Vicki Woodyard