I have journals dating back to when I was twelve years old. I think I have well over fifty by now; I have lost count. Recently I have unearthed some of them as I piece back the pages of Self. In these pages I read a voice both loving & hating; struggling & surviving. I embrace her paths, her decisions, some more daunting than others, and I find comfort in knowing that I have lived many lives only to find myself in my authentic state as a body and being of love.
Reading through my memoirs is a courageous journey where I have one foot tethered to the ground while the other swings careless in the wind. I must remember this present, otherwise I could get carried away. Sifting through these paper trails and semantic ruins, I am reassured for this path I am so gratefully on.
Whenever in doubt, draw; whenever in fear, love.
What is your story?