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Okay, I get it.

I need this blog, like I need to breathe.

I need to be able to write here, to work through process and to share preciousness.

I need to have one place to weave through the fabric of it all, and another place to let my imagination run wild.

Last night I had a dream about an old woman. She was in a wheelchair and was being wheeled into a dangerous surgery that was to likely kill her. As the doctors stood around her , cutting, poking, prodding, and sucking, to remove dangerous blood clots, she flat-lined over and over. I watched as parts of her body gave out, including a leg, that was amputated.

Everything happens for a reason. That I get. Even down to the smallest most insignificant events. They all add up, somehow.

I see how leaving and coming back here, takes courage. I also see how writing here was such a precious part of my experience, how it helped the life-force to flow.

I see how gathering back parts of myself is part of the journey, and how letting it happen, is my freedom.

Sometimes we have to give up parts of ourselves, to realize we can't get around very well without them. Sometimes coming home means going away for a while.

I look back at earlier posts on the wild road, and feel ashamed of my naivete, at the brash way I asserted my understanding of the meaning of life.

I look back at later posts, and feel ashamed at so many bouts of darkness.

I recognize transcendent parts and indulgent parts.

However, as I look at it as a whole, I feel reverent. None of it matters, and all of it matters.

Today, in the wee hours of the morning, I return to myself a vital life-force.

Backdoor to the Moon. 

Always been there, waiting to emerge.

And just the way I needed to get there, via a big beautiful wild road.

And if it looks like I am flailing, it is because I am. My soul, embracing what it needs, and realizing that the only thing constant is change, and the only thing I can do about that, is be me.