I lit my mother's white square candle yesterday, the one she has had for decades now. It made me feel good to pull it out and add it to our holiday decor.

There was no guarantee she would be able to put herself together again so she took a new form and moved differently through the world. She shifted her entire existence and yet everything around her stayed the same. 

A seed does not self-pity the dirt, the darkness; it’s sprouts; it grows; compelling itself to change with direction unknown. It finds a way to its given value.

After all this time, I can’t see what it is I want to write except that I want to write and I know that is my true way in this life.

The movement calls me to the moment and I am cast into a sea I can wholly not ignore. Sometimes the business of life is a gift of transition.

Trust the billowy movement to take you out into the far reaches of this existence. You must believe in the journey. Build your vision, stretch your wings, follow your compass. The creature flying toward you is an unfettered friend; a muse in these surroundings. What story do you want to tell?

I’ve grown highly aware of all the versions of me that have existed like ripples through my lifetime. Not only the ones streaming farther away from me now as I grow older but also the ones left to come through me.

She said to me, “How about we stick together so none of us get lost?” I asked her if she keeps getting lost and she said, “Sometimes.” The moment has been haunting me a little since we had it.

Just another old song on the radio
And I can’t seem to remember my soul 
The words come and some I let go 
I’m anchored by what I can’t control.

I sat there like it was a park bench on a beautiful day, looking out across the expense. My heart was breaking, my eyes tearing, all the while not surprised by this result. I kept reasoning, “This the natural progression of dementia. The goal is to help her let go.” Perhaps I had to let go too.

I used to collect so many snippets and sayings in my notebooks. The one sticking with me today is that hope was the last thing to come out of Pandora’s box.

Just another old song on the radio
And I can’t seem to remember my soul 
The words come and some I let go 
I’m anchored by what I can’t control.

This tapestry I possess, these memories I carry and the moments I still crave are mine alone to wrap up in and treasure. They keep me warm at night. They wake me in the day. They compel me to marvel and contemplate my being.

I love writing so much: how a sentence can inspire me; how stringing words together feels like I’m weaving a blanket. Later I find myself wrapping up in the moment.