If I am authentically in the moment, the words I type are destined to be read by someone totally unlike me. The unknown is a precious gift and we are all unknown.

Being like others mechanically is a bore, but being unlike anyone else is a gift you give yourself.

I have never liked socializing; I much prefer a solitary life in which I am free to be myself.

It is 10:45 and I am still not dressed for the day. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is the great mystery of “Who am I?

The fear is alive and well in me—the fear of not being good enough to be myself. Not yet, I mumble. Maybe tomorrow.

I have written a lot of notes during times of great sorrow and now I find myself mostly okay.

A handful of people read my words and relate to them, for they are written by a fellow human being.

I am just like you and you are just like me.

Newborn to the moment and fearing that the next step may be perilous.

What if it all blows up? What then?

I shall get dressed and go about my own business.

And so shall you. We shall meet in the ethers of divinity and humanity.

Clouds of unknowing bravely acting the role we were given to play.

Let us pray and then let us play.

Vicki Woodyard