Update, May 2020: It’s almost six years since I started writing here, and by many measures, I have little reason to continue. So to say what this thing is about is even more daunting than at the beginning. I don’t write often enough for it to serve as a journal, nor do I assert much in search of an audience. I have little interest in sounding like an expert on anything, so punditry is out of the question, although I have my causes, some of which have appeared here. Maybe I hang in there (here) out of habit, or curiosity, or because it’s a task I set myself, an appointment with the unknown, a way to keep the muscle of prose in some sort of moderate tone. My original project, of fostering conversation about mindfulness for kids, faded long ago. There are plenty of people in the world crusading for mindfulness, and with far more commitment and scope than myself; a keyword search yields staggering returns. I continue to, in the words of Theodore Roethke, “learn by going where I have to go.” Maybe I’ll discover that I no longer need to be using this platform. Certainly the internet doesn’t need more content. Right now, I think I’ll hold on a little longer. A health crisis throughout 2019 impacted me neurologically as well as bodily, and I’ve had the hard work of moving on from that. I thought I was done enjoying things I’d enjoyed prior—but I’ve since been in the process of rediscovering my relation to them. Words have been among the last pleasures to return fully to me. Like Neruda, I had long loved words with almost physical passion, despite the tangles they have a tendency to create. Last year, though, words failed me, expressing not the grounding truths that might have reassured me but the cognitive confusion from which I needed rescue. Words didn’t save me, they buried me deeper in pain. I did my best to climb back to life, and here I am. Learning to forgive words for lending themselves to that death-within-life, for being available when mute agony would have served me better. Recognizing that my words of confusion also carried back to me the experience of unconditional love and support and brought my family together. Which is a deeply fortunate thing, other losses notwithstanding. Who am I? A writer, to some extent, and a therapist, with experience working with kids and families and volunteering at the county jail, former research assistant for an NIH grant study. Interested in polyvagal theory, narrative therapy, sustainability, birdsong in the morning, good walks, sunshine, rainstorms, friends. Etc. Thank you for reading.