'What am I doing to myself? What on earth am I doing
to myself? I picked up a fallen stick. "Wake up!" I shouted.
"Wake up" Oliver's words. I ran down the street hitting the stick across the metal posts of the fences, my bare feet against the cement pavement. I grabbed at branches and
shook them until the leaves fell. If I could have picked up
the sun, and hurled it, I would have.

Writing is one way of exploring the stuff of my life, of being intimate with myself and others.