My writing is the only contribution I make to life. Yep. I have looked and looked and I can’t find anything else.

Sometimes I write sad; at other times I write funny. Words are my metier (I have never used that word before.)

I don’t let Vicki know what words she is typing; otherwise it would be self-aggrandizing.

This January morning Vicki is feeling both penitent over eating too much sugar and craving more sugar! Go figure.

She sees cobwebs all over the place. She has a vaulted ceiling, so many of them will never be removed. January is not the month to deep clean anything.

There was a time when she had no sense of style and shopped with someone who did have one. After her husband died, she began going to what she called “the bazaar,” by which she meant T. J. Max and Marshall’s. (Her Mac program will not allow her to put the next “x” in T. J. Max, so you must bear with her.)

She is of a certain age, which she shouldn’t be telling. Her body is old enough that finally she can say No to most social invitations. Let’s face it; she doesn’t get any and she doesn’t want any. Pounding out these essays is her raison d’etre (You didn’t think I was smart enough to use that word, didn’t you?

She has neurological problems that will get worse in time. So far so good. We’ll see what eventually keeps her from her “job” of writing essays.

Mostly, this confession is about inadequacy, isn’t it? That the person writing this is rather useless. Well, aren’t we all? The whole point of awakening is to see that there is no one there to awaken.

What I write next depends on what I wrote earlier; otherwise you wouldn’t still be reading. Don’t you have anything better to do? I didn’t think so.

To reward you for reading to the bottom of this essay, I am giving away something more precious than gold. What is it?

I don’t know, either; but don’t tell Vicki. She thinks she is doling out the truth when in fact, she is only killing time until she can have another cookie.

Vicki Woodyard