I couldn’t do four hours of book writing this weekend. I am too tender, too raw, too tired, too scared. That doesn’t mean writing didn’t happen this week, writing that most likely will end up in the book I’m writing. It does mean that I needed to relax, take it easy, be gentle with myself. Here’s one thing I wrote this week that feels “bookish.”

I get off the futon and see a love note written to me by my husband. They are scattered all through the house–“you are my favorite,” “have a great day,” “I love you. P.S. Turn off the sprinkler.”–along with two he wrote after walking Dexter, his first two walks after “the bloody scare,” about how well he did, how he was fine, “perfect, no problem.” I want to stitch them to my sleeves like prayer flags or feathers of wings without flight, like messages for those people who find me wandering lost, who will
need to read them to find out where my heart lives and help get me back home.