When I began writing this book I wasn’t sure why. Other than pieces and parts of myself had been calling out to me for a very long time.

I shove the words back into the cave of my mind. Only for whole paragraphs to rise up at the oddest moments. Like when I’m making love. Praying. Or flossing my teeth.

I hid them in the closet. An image poked its head out leering, “Remember me?”

The thing is, if I didn’t excavate this inner quarry I wouldn’t be fulfilling my agreement with that intangible something, or someone. Who continued to poke a finger at my shoulder, prodding, “Come on. Get going.”

If I kept turning my back on this vague specter, the part of my essence that longs for expression, would have eventually left me. Alone. Abandoned. Like past lovers. I’d be left anxious with a deep un-nameable sadness.

I know because I have tried. I know because writing is one way I sift through the messiness of life hoping to find a few golden nuggets.

And so, I lay my naked heart before you.

With Love,

P.S. Every day as I sat down to write this book I committed to radical self-honesty. Not to hide from my own stupidity and unskillful choice-making. Memories, though, are shape-shifters. Over time some may take on a different guise, form, personality. Colors fade, or become more alive and vibrant. With distance, space and time my perception of people and experiences may certainly be shrouded in opaque recollection.