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 V-boy son, raw food and green smoothies.
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April 2020
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