Affirmations

I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse.

Over and over I write this. and as I do, the pit of fear in my stomach grows. I AM afraid of people; I DON'T easily converse. I sit with the fear for a minute, feeling it, and as I do, it dissipates.

I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse.

The fear returns. The truth is, I am afraid of conversing, afraid of speaking, afraid of not having anything to say and looking foolish. It is a valid fear, but one can be resolved with some preparation. I know what to do -- discuss the news, remember a story about myself, share a joke. I CAN do it, but not off-the-cuff. I have to prepare.

I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse. I am not afraid of people; I easily converse.

Yes, maybe I can.

A Jeans Jacket with Black Velvet Sleeves

That's what I'm wearing today, with jeans and a white lowcut t-shirt. I look pretty damn good, which admittedly is easy when you're wearing what I'm wearing. There's not too much that's cooler than a jeans jacket with black velvet sleeves.

We're Walking to the End of the Beach

It was a busy family time down in Sarasota, but Don and I found time to walk on the beach on Siesta Key after the sun went down. One should always find time to walk on the beach. Our last night was wonderful -- hand in hand, on powdered sugar sand, a full moon overhead, pale clouds drifting by, the dark shape of a heron in the shallow water. We walked for an hour. It wasn't so much romantic as companionable in a very deep and intimate way. "We should walk to the end of the beach sometime," said Don, and I thought what an incredible metaphor that was. The beach is our life together. We're walking hand in hand, and we're committed together going all the way to the end. I haven't always wanted to do that, as a matter of fact for many years I've been waiting for the right time and place to leave this beach. Things have changed though; I no longer feel that way. Now I want to walk hand in hand with Don to the end of our beach.

A letter from a Marine who died in Iraq

Cpl. Jeffrey B. Starr, First Battalion of the Fifth Marine Regiment, died in a firefight in Ramadi on April 30, 2005, during his third tour in Iraq. He was 22. This letter was found on his laptop, to be delivered to his girlfriend in the case of his death.

"Obviously if you are reading this then I have died in Iraq. I kind of predicted this, that is why I'm writing this in November. A third time just seemed like I'm pushing my chances. I don't regret going, everybody dies but few get to do it for something as important as freedom. It may seem confusing why we are in Iraq, it's not to me. I'm here helping these people, so that they can live the way we live. Not have to worry about tyrants or vicious dictators. To do what they want with their lives. To me that is why I died. Others have died for my freedom, now this is my mark."

The Death of Pheasants

Boiled up three pheasants last night with the goal of making pheasant with dumplings. Don's friend Todd shot many many of them on a hunting trip and now we get the fruits of his labors, such as they are. As I cleaned them in the sink I thought about their deaths. It must have been pretty scary for them in that field that day, with all the yelling and tromping and gunshots. The shot drives their feathers into their flesh, pokes their bodies full of little holes and breaks their bones. One of the pheasant was shot at pretty close range. Its body was a mess -- not much left of the breast on the left side. This is what it means to be shot to hell, I guess. The chicken we buy in the store is so so clean. We even buy it deboned now, which removes us yet another step from the fact that this was a living creature. It's more obvious what you are eating when you have to pick the shot out, break its leg joint with your hands to get the claw off because the joint is too tough to cut through, and remove bits of lung tissue and heart. Life feeds on life, says Joseph Campbell. It's one of the mysteries of this life. I live because it died. Thank you, pheasant, for what you have given me.