Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned. It's been longer than I care to think about since my last confession. You probably imagine me leading a carefree life of bucolic bliss: wandering through the woods foraging for pristine delicacies; plucking tender vegetables from my garden; traveling to exotic places; whipping up epic feasts...and there are certainly times when all this is true. But, oh, there are other times. And those I tend to keep to myself, tamped down in a dark and moldy spot.

Why would you want to know about my fears and foibles and failings? That all smacks of dirty laundry and this is meant to be a place of inspiration. But deep down I know that what we often find most uplifting has nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with the full spectrum of our shared humanity.


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There's a game I play sometimes: I look at my life as it is in this moment, think of everything I possess right now, and ask myself if I would be happy if nothing ever changed. I won't deny that sometimes this leads to sadness bordering on desperation. What if I don't finish my novel? Never build that house on the lake? Fail to see Burma? Is this it?  Time and money often factor into this mental equation. Self-doubt can creep in. On those days, I question if I have fulfilled my potential, tried hard enough, risked enough. But I am not what I own, nor even what I do, and if I start to define myself by those measures, there is no satisfaction guaranteed.

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