If Someone Should Ask Me, 'what Does

At Forty-two, I Had Never Done Anything That Took My Own Breath Away, And I Suppose Now That Was Part Of The Problem--my Chronic Inability To Astonish Myself. I Promise You, No One Judges Me More Harshly Than I Do Myself; I Caused A Brilliant Wreckage. Some Say I Fell From Grace; They're Being Kind. I Didn't Fall. I Dove.

In Recent Years My Understanding Of God Had Evolved Into Increasingly Remote Abstractions. I'd Come To Think Of God In Terms Like Divine Reality, The Absolute, Or The One Who Holds Us In Being. I Do Believe That God Is Beyond Any Form And Image, But It Has Grown Clear To Me That I Need An Image In Order To Relate. I Need An Image In Order To Carry On An Intimate Conversation With What Is So Vast, Amorphous, Mysterious, And Holy That It Becomes Ungraspable. I Mean, Really, How To You Become Intimate With Divine Reality? Or The Absolute?

I Could Even Feel How Perishable All My Moments Really Were, How All My Life They Had Come To Me Begging To Be Lived, To Be Cherished Even.

I Realize That I Can Be With Someone, But On A Deeper Level I'm Not Available To Them At All. I Have Attention Deficit Disorder Of The Soul.

Yes, Here I Am Returning, The Woman Who Bore Herself To The Bottom And Back. Who Wanted To Swim Like Dolphins, Leaping Waves And Diving. Who Wanted Only To Belong To Herself.