I heard my friend Doug Rice, whispering these words into my ears early this morning, during that moment when body, mind, and memory reside in parallel universes - not awake, not asleep, somewhere in the middle, when voices are more available, willing to be heard, unrehearsed, uncensored, when accidental essays make their uninvited entrance. He implored me to get lost in my writing, risk drowning in words, be permissive in tone, letting the characters drive the narrative. My insides had been begging to slow down, linger. I wanted to remember.  I started thinking about my grandmother, the blue veins permanently etched onto her hands, the aging loose skin sagging over her distant skeleton, one she often told me resided in her homeland, Armenia. My name was derived from this place that held her heart. Feeling the softness of her cotton organza dress rubbing along my cheek as I lay against her in the back seat of our 1961 station wagon, I knew her spirit was close by. After spending the weekend immersed in book duties - preparing a lecture, sitting on a dirt road surrounded by barbed wire fences, yellow lines leading to nowhere, making eye contact with a camera lens that insisted I tell the truth, returning to that deeper place of stillness, alone with contemplation, I needed to feel her ancient arms wrapped around me one more time.