Wednesday, May 31, 2006


It's a beautiful night here in West Palm. Just a little while ago, I took the dogs out for a walk and was surprised to open the front door and step into breezy, comfortable air (rather than drenching humidity and blazing temps). The sky was clear and the stars were luminous. I didn't know what to pay most attention to: the stars radiating in the sky or their glittery reflection off the pond near my parents' place.

Like me, the dogs were delighted to be outside. Maggie, in her usual amiable frenzy, ran in every direction during our entire walk, twisting her leash around my legs, Murphy's legs, every tree we passed, and at times even her own body. On the other hand, Murphy, in his usual mellow state, just sort of plodded along beside me.

I was only outside for about 20 minutes, but they were 20 minutes of clarity and reassurance. While I was alternating my attention between the sky, the pond, the sound of night time in this place that is still somewhat new for me, the breeze which had only recently rolled off the Atlantic Ocean and made it's way the couple miles inland to where I walked at that moment, and all the things around me down here on the eastern coast of southern Florida, I became acutely aware of the fact that I was standing--quite literally--at the very edge of this enormous continent. It was at once humbling, soothing, and energizing.

By the time the dogs and I wandered back home, I felt more certain than ever that I will be ok, that I am ok now. Life has been weird and I haven't been very happy lately, but that's changing.


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