In the time it took to find a pen and paper, I’ve forgotten what I was to say. Tomorrow is my birthday. I am happy I was born, though it took me many years to say it. I struggled then, so I could savor my freedom now. A blessing and a gift, which I will not take for granted. Let the past pass. Pass by. Pass over. Let it flow like a river. Only lately have I learned to let it go.
Bright sun on a bitter Winter day is a gift. There are no gifts in bitterness. Once I was lost in that stultifying emptiness, and thought that I might die there. Alone in my illusion. Afraid of my own shadow. I learned to love the way I learned the clarinet: led by curiosity, patience and devotion. One day my squeaking squawking turned into music, and all the work was worth it, more than worth it. I’d do it all again, for that one shining moment of astonishment.