I find I live this ridiculous double life: in public I appear to be strong and cheerful though flawed—full of advice and kind words—i.e., a good person. The illusion I have created is that I am someone who, if you didn’t know already you’d try to get to know them. Although a little air-headed, very intelligent and passionate.

Though not passionate so much as in a sexual sense (although there is that side of me), passionate in a political one: I will fight and believe in your cause and your right to have what you fight for. It is the irrepressible Aquarian in me. And then there is the definitely sensuous side of me. . .also very, very Aquarian.

For example, my birthday, as followers and subscribers who are patient enough with me will recall from lamentations of bygone days, falls ridiculously on St. Valentine’s Day! Because of this, I appear to the world as strong, true, focused, generous, self-disciplined; friendly and killing myself while trying, like an overly zealous Labrador puppy, to please everyone around me. It is a by-product of being born on the national day of love.

This last thought provides the necessarily awkward segue to the central conflict:  a human being should not try to be a Labrador puppy. On the inside, behind closed doors, I cry and cry, talking for hours to myself about myself. I call it praying, but if no one is listening, then who cares what it is; other than the gibberish of an old black woman filled with regret. I talk big game about the tragedy of living a life of regret—the unlived life, but in reality, that’s exactly what has happened; and I experience true sadness behind that door to my spirit’s house.

On my way to yet another doctor appointment, where I once again review with complete strangers my medical history—every flaw and imperfection listed first in alphabetical order (it’s easier to remember) then chronological order (which tells its own story), I began to cry. . .again. When this happens, especially when I’m in traffic I call it wide-eyed prayer, and because my eyes are open, I don’t hold much hope that the act is to be considered “prayer” at all. More likely regarded as a high-speed tantrum. Ridiculous.

As for my spiritual journal, today God wants me to know exactly that: I am on a journey. I may seem to be standing still, but I must believe that things are working in my favor and just like a Steve Young--Jerry Rice pass/reception combo, it will catch up with me—else I go insane. Equally ridiculous.