These writings are not what I thought they would be.
As the writings evolve, so does my thoughts and perspective. They feed on one another. I feed on them.
My life is disclosed in large swaths. Like an Impressionistic painting viewed at a distance without the distraction of small paint strokes, I incorporate the red and see the solid green field. The specifics inform the whole.
I sink slowly into thoughts. I see the myth arc unfold of a woman who sits on the crest of a giant wave that has been building for decades. A woman just like me. A woman who is me.
A single voice emerges to give the synopsis, distillation and generalization of a life. The voice has power and healing to me. The voice whispers that it is me.
I surface as if giving birth, although to what I am not yet sure. Am I the one giving birth or being born? Perhaps I am both.