The brilliant Maria Popova once said “Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write.”

I read this and immediately realized her and I must be identically afflicted.

The coolest part of writing all these years is this mounting history of my own unraveling, exploration and ongoing rehabilitation.  For the last two decade I can go back to nearly any single day of any single year and observe who I was, how I thought, what was working and what wasn’t.  I often smile thinking how my own words may someday my perfect alibi.

July 2011:

The rain is how I feel.  

dark and looming
chilled and alone.
I watch the water stream, like a sheet on the pavement. 
I feel that flat.  I watch it find depth in the downward.  
Characteristics of Rain:
wet clear, drops, grey and blue yet arrives colorless
February 2015:
 I can’t believe how much more I get when I don’t complain, be quiet about whats wrong and point out and represent what’s right, take what I need and leave the rest, keep going.  When I force myself to shut up about what’s wrong, it seems to go away.  I’m reminded again how much words have power, complaints have power and how much I’ve fucked that up in the past.   Amazing, amazed. 
July 2013:
I’m in Sri Lanka, in a mountainside meditation center. Holy crap am I happy.  
On the window sills are several small wood plaques that read:
“Come with empty hands, go with empty mind.”
“Shrouded by darkness, would you not seek a light?”
“What you see reflects your thinking”.
“When attachment arises, contemplate impermanence, not self.”
If I had the opportunity to add two more signs they would be:
“No way out but in”.
“Wherever you go, there you are.”

I’ve spent today reviewing my own history.

Regardless of how I so often feel, I can’t find an area of my life that hasn’t gotten better.