Loss Takes Up Inside Of Everything Sooner

I've Always Been A Journal-keeper. I've Always Tried To Write About How I'm Experiencing Life, And My Feelings And Thoughts.

It Takes A Bee 10,000,000 Trips To Collect Enough Nectar To Make 1 Pound Of Honey.

I Sit In My New Room And Write Everything Down. My Heart Never Stops Talking.

How Did We Ever Get The Idea That God Would Supply Us On Demand With Quick Fixes, That God Is Merely A Rescuer And Not A Midwife?

I Marvel At How Good I Was Before I Met Him, How I Lived Molded To The Smallest Space Possible, My Days The Size Of Little Beads That Passed Without Passion Through My Fingers. So Few People Know What They're Capable Of. At Forty-two I'd Never Done Anything That Took My Own Breath Away, And I Suppose Now That Was Part Of The Problem - My Chronic Inability To Astonish Myself.