Epilogue: Note to Self--I Am Here

I'm still here. Underneath the extra layers, and underneath my work. Underneath the top of my head and above the soles of my feet. I'm here, really I'm here. I'm here. Please, I'm here. Come find me, I'm here. Still.

I have nothing to say and there's nothing else to do except to love my kids a whole lot and earn a living and care for people and not do anything too wrong. But underneath all that I'm still here. And beyond Oprah and Dr. Oz and a thousand gurus, I'm still here and I have something to say but I don't know what it is.

And somewhere, in the darkest part of the night, huddled underneath my blankets, someone will find me and hold me tenderly. Surely they will. Surely someone will find me. Inside this mechanical shell, I AM. And I want and I need. But I'm dying a slow death. I'm not really alive. I am a dishwasher. I am a line cook. I am a house cleaner. I am a child hugger and a dog walker.

But too, I am a writer and a dreamer. And a believer--somewhere within me, still, faith waits to be released...and dance loud and sing wild and be in nature and be loved and love and hope and see and be seen and suffer and rejoice. And laugh, yes laugh until I can't stand it anymore, and then giggle. And tickle gently another and be caressed.

I AM HERE. Really I am. I am falling. It's different now...there's no crisis, just the ever so silent haunting of aging, crushing responsibility, and a deep, long ago rooted belief in deprivation.

Bring forth abundance and plant a new seed in my depths. Help me see the seed even as my eyes get old. And lead me to water to tend the seed. And let me grow, finally, please let me grow as the seed grows into exactly what it is and is meant to be, let me grow like that and finally flourish.