There's this popular advice among us
to tell each other,
sometimes gently, sometimes harshly,
not to live in the past.
And, of course, this is an understandable request.
Not too much to ask of our friends and those we love too much.
How does one look towards a new year, though,
without the story of what came before.
Two thousand and nine began for me gently.
I had recently buried a woman in Ghana who had meant the world to me, there was calm and closure.
I was writing and finally purging some of the dramas that had occurred in the mayhem that was the prior three years.
There was strong beauty in my friendships and I felt deeply connected to those I chose to be around me.
I was, I thought, maybe ready for love.
And so. I believed it found me.
Apparently, nothing could have prepared me when suddenly the bridge I had almost finished crossing suddenly broke beneath me.
Ah. My introduction to a companion named PTSD.
It has taken 8 months to gather the pieces, rebuild my bridge.
That's all.
Among this wreckage, I found beautiful places.
Spent time with a few unbelievable spirits.
Achieved incredible personal and professional feats.
And all along the way I remained completely raw.
You saw.
And I don't care.
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