After enduring near death experience–not of myself, but of family and friends–there is this slump after the initial grief: why bother with life?  What am I doing here?  What difference does it really mean, this little lump of protoplasm stuck on the third planet in a minor galaxy on the edge of a middle-sized universe?  Why bother?

It must be about making up good stories.  That’s what humans do best, I think.  Make things up.  Sometimes it’s classic, like Diana of York; sometimes frightening, like Hitler or 9-11.  Sometimes it’s quiet and simple, like how my dog and cat both used to walk with me through the neighborhood.

I ask the trees and they say it is about just being more of what you are.  They don’t even call it growth, just be more of whatever you are being.  I think life is about creating something.  I get stuck wishing I could create something big, like a book and be on Oprah, or a spectacular therapy tool and talk on TV like Phil or something.

But it is just about being me.  Here is where I spill some stories.  I tell funny ones in person.  And I do create every moment.  One of the things I created–with help, of course–was my kids.  That counts too.

And today I claim the story that there is a magnificent ancient and beautiful Goddess that is always at my back.  Right now She is singing and dancing behind me with a new song that the universe has not yet heard.  The melody takes me away to a near heavenly experience.  That is my story, and I’m sticking to it.