Tell me everything you know . . . . Own anything you want in your writing and then let it go. — Natalie Goldberg

I know what it is to live in Manhattan, to wake on Sunday morning to a quiet that makes me worry.

I know what it is to love the sound of a person’s voice even when you can’t remember her face.

I know what it is to detest coffee that tastes like water and the sheer, rib-opening joy of coffee bean smell.

I know what is it to worry so much that my chest feels like a tangled up knot of Christmas tree lights.

I know that a strong breeze and a long walk can loosen that knot almost entirely.

I know the feeling that comes over me when I read something I have thought to be true but never spoke into reality for myself – the feeling that someone has caressed my very heart.

I know that hearing of three men who died in a farming accident in PA yesterday seems impossible and so very possible for even just my grandfather.

I know that the scent of vanilla teases out memories of college and Mom and just the most happy of feelings, none of which have to do with baking.

I know that people can be cold when they are hurt, and I know that this coldness hurts.

I know that thank you notes are superfluous unless they are not sent.

I know that the rumble of my kitten’s belly loosens the muscles in my neck.

I know that coloring may be better than meditation.

I know that the life of a monastic appeals to me still.

I know that the fog coming over Mt. Tam north of San Francisco always reminds me of someone pulling a blanket over a child.

I know that all is well and all will be well.

What do you know to be true, even if you have no proof?