Hours have passed since the sauna epiphany. I’m still trying to bite off small chunks of all the stuff in my head and process them one at a time. It’s too much to consider at once. I know I sound melodramatic – hinting about this big “thing” that I’m not explaining at all. And maybe it isn’t a big thing to anyone but me. Maybe everyone else on the planet has already come to this realization and will tell me I’m an idiot for being surprised by it. Or maybe it’s just something that gets tucked quietly into a mental storage area where I can reference it as needed in the future.
Or maybe it was nothing but heat-induced delirium.
But maybe… it’s the subject of my book.
A package arrived today from Mr. Nice Guy. He’s been treating me all week to cards and candies from the left coast, and today I received a beautiful blank writing journal. The cover says:
She sat down before breakfast. Decided how to spend her day: climb trees. Run fast. Sing at the top of her lungs. Do the dishes tomorrow.
And the back cover reads perfectly:
It is here where she must begin to tell her story.
I think it’s finally time. I have goosebumps.