The bright side of the planet moves toward darkness

And the cities are falling asleep, each in its hour,

And for me, now as then, it is too much.

There is too much world.~Czeslaw Milosz (From The Separate Notebooks)

I dreamed last week that I saw a white arrow pointing forward. I wasn't sure what to make of the dream when I awakened. It was not an ominous dream. 

Then yesterday, I was a greeter at church. A strong wind blew. Rain pelted the sidewalk. People began streaming into the church, some faces familiar. Some not. Then I looked up at the sky, and I noted patches of blue, the sun peering through. Two weather systems in the span of fifteen minutes.

Another parishioner greeted people with me. During a lull in people arriving, we began to talk about our lives.

This ascetic cubicle of regret...you couldn't go back he understood that now. You had to press on. You had to forge ahead.~Elizabeth Brundage (From The Vanishing Point)

I've been thinking about moving when you don't want to. When you are forced to. A good friend of mine had to pack up and move quickly. Rent a truck and find boxes. Boxes are hard to find. You have to scramble. So much tape. So many emotions that must be pared down along with all the things.

His mother came to help, kept things flowing. "You probably won't use that. Leave it here." She wrapped the oriental vases carefully, her hands strong. Capable. 

And so a picture here, another there removed from the wall. You can see the outline of the frame, the paint slightly darker where the picture once sat, the hooks exposed. A naked, vulnerable space.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.~Psalm 16:6

Last week I sat with a group of women. The topic of bucket lists emerged. Most everyone spoke of magical places they wanted to visit--a desire to quench a thirst for adventure in fantastical locations that fueled their imaginations.

I had a different reaction. I didn't yearn to go anywhere. 

I thought, "I want to enjoy the spot I'm in now. To savor the parts of my life that seem like manna every day." I like to read the Bible and hear the dryer tumbling as I sit in my green chair in the study. I like listening to Pandora and humming a song I remember as a girl. I like spraying Dolce E Gabbana Light Blue on my wrists and inhaling the good smell. The small luxuries of existence are like a bucket list to me. To feel contentment, joyful even, where I am.

To anchor into the day and want no more, not wish for things to change, or for people to be nicer or the rain to stop or to be prettier. Rather to gently crack open the spine of a book, hear the rustling pages, smell the fragrance of paper and ink. Absorb the story, drink my coffee.

What we run from pursues us. What we face transforms us.~David Kessler

I started writing books in 2005. Writing was a way to face my life and losses, my gains and wins. Writing became a bridge to healing, an unexpected and loyal companion. 

Over the last two years I've written another novel. I'm now working on refurbishing the rough draft. The work is intense, and the satisfaction the creative process brings me, practically scandalous. I love to write.

In my second novel, I stick with the topic that interests me. Grief and loss. The possibility of hope to transcend the darkness. I continue to practice one of the fundamental principles I follow in my writing. Write about what intrigues and interests me. What I notice. There are a million books about grief and loss, but none from my perspective. I don't let the volumes already written deter me.

I share an excerpt with you in this post. My protagonist is named Alexandra. Alex for short. She has run from her pain and lives alone on the Oregon coast with her dog, Stella. She has consistent phone contact with her grandmother, Marvel. Alex has been having many dreams in the night watches. She doesn't know what to make of them. Perhaps you'll be able to discover the title of the book as you read. (Let me know if you'd like to take guess about what it is.) Surely, you'll be able to understand where the image and the title I chose for the post comes from after you read the excerpt.

Thank you for your continued interest to read what I write. There is no greater gift.

I had become proficient in the poetry of acceptance.~Rebecca Woolf (From All Of This)

My sister and niece arrived during a rainstorm. I picked them up at the airport, and rushed to quickly hug them, our faces moist with raindrops and joy to see each other once again. The whole of their visit was marked with platinum skies and unseasonably cool temperatures for March in Charleston. Yet we did not let the weather mar our time. We basked in the fellowship of one another, gathered around the table, burning a candle and feasting on good food and sweet companionship. We talked and laughed, bound by our history and love. And their kind hearts of grace toward me caused me to think of all the sweet acoustics of life that are poured out by God, like that spring rain that wet our faces and...

~Driving down a road with the ocean a stripe of cobalt on the left.

~When someone you love gets well.

~Sunlight streaming in my window and glancing off the purple orchid.

~Sitting on the porch in the early morning, birds chirping, a fresh breeze on my face, the sky smudged with pink. 

~That good feeling after a workout, sweat trickling down the back.

~Toast spread with Nutella.

~Notebooks with lines and those without.

~The scent of jasmine and giant hedges of pink and coral azaleas.

~The ability to keep doing the mundane tasks of everyday living, grateful I can move and hear and bound up the steps.

~Riding on the back of a motorcycle, my arms around my husband's waist, the Lake of Garda spangled with sunlight.

~The poetry of the Psalms.