Catching sunset
(We know the day we were born, but most of us do not know the day we will die. This love letter to my life is written on the day I've designated as my death day: the 17th of every month, and reminds me to be grateful for my joy-filled life. Joyce Wycoff)
I’ve decided to own my life.
Seventeen days ago, there was a tremor, probably only a 3 on the Richter scale. Nothing fell off the walls; no new cracks in the sidewalk. But, something shifted. Somewhere near my breast bone, I felt a loosening, a lightness entering, ushering in the words above.
During a small retreat of about forty people, questions appeared, prompting new thoughts. Songs invited misinterpretations that turned into insights. Resistance morphed into wonderings.
Two words followed me home and asked for lodging. I couldn’t say “no” … they were so small and wanted nothing more than a place to rest.
The next day when I awoke, they had rearranged the furniture.