My soul exhales words; my fingertips are lung cells.

Nobody reads my book in one sitting.

It just dawns on me that this book is not a page turner. No one reads it cover to cover all at once. All of the feedback I’ve received has been, “Reading your book slowly, very deep and needs to be read gently,” or “Very indulgent, I want to savor it” (coming from a software programmer!)

This feedback opens up a remembering in me, a remembering that there is a part of me, deep within, that is slow, sensual, savoring life with each tender breath, luxuriating in each moment, trembling ever so gently with each palpitating motion of life.

September 2018, in the umpteenth attempt yet again to write my book, I grumpily asked myself, “Who needs to read this book anyway? Why should anyone care about what I have to say?”

It was an early morning, and I was sitting in bed looking out to the back garden through the glass window. As soon as that question arose, a yellow hummingbird landed on a green leaf and started singing. Out of nowhere, this voice whispered in my ear, “The songbird sings because Creator has a song that Creator wants you to hear.”