There’s no way to start this (again!) than in the middle.
There’s no other place, really, then the middle. Always.
We seem to think there is a beginning - and an end - to things - and stories. I seem to believe that about my stories, anyway.
But as much as I attempt to find that one unique moment and reveal it to you - for the sake of understanding, and context, and consistency - my (momentous or original) beginning always eludes me.
So here I am, in the middle. In a random moment, within a random day.
As every moment of every day is a middle.
The birth - my birth or V's birth - they seem to be beginnings - but things did not start there, did they...
Is the beginning of a child, any human, really, the moment it physically enters the womb?
That fleeting moment of entering and receiving that the parents shared?
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I write about what makes me feel alive and shining: my work, art, love of life, sun, the sea, essential oils, my son, raw food and green smoothies.
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