No words.

Writing. Practicing some kind of modicum of discipline. Ugh. I hate that word. I'm the antithesis of discipline. But, like most humans, it feels good to do it. To accomplish something. And so. I begin. Maybe not always here. I actually want to start writing in a word doc, you know, like a real writer. But still, here feels comforting, and familiar.

Deep breath.

Isabel came to me last night, I was shocked that she has been gone from me for 13 years almost now. That it has been 13 years since she danced in my belly. I laid my hand there, where she lived, and the tears came easily. Freely, purely. God, I loved her. I love her still. I heard the song today- The Impossible Dream and there's a lyric that says: "to bear with unbearable sorrow" and "to love pure and chaste from afar" and there she was again. The feelings came rushing back. But softer. More knowing. More clear. She's here, always. She is love.

And so when I think about writing, I wonder - what is the story inside of me that I need to tell? And it's never really clear. I wait for that clarity, but maybe the clarity only comes by doing it. By beginning and continuing something... I'm not sure. Maybe. I know the theme is always love. I know that the stories that capture my attention are about love. How it rolls and turns and is filled with everything; grief, joy, death, birth. All of it boils down to one thing. The pain we go through to really *feel* it, and know it, become one with it.

Life is love. Love is life.

And so. I really just want to live it. I don't know if I'm ready to write about it. The words seem so inadequate. The being and living of it means more. Sharing it from within. It's really all I can do. Be me, my truth, naked in front of you.

And so I do.