Some days, months, years
It seems someone or something
Is colluding against us,
As though we were victims of circumstance—
The subject of someone else’s drama.

I’m tired, she said, of my life
Being saturated with death—so many deaths.
What if instead, I were the author—
And bold raconteur of my story?

Are we not all faced with this task—
To take up that pen and begin
writing a life worthy of the living?
To choose again and again,
To be the courageous authors—
And willing subjects of our own lives.

Can you imagine the stories you’d tell?
I choose the moments of sacred simplicity
And lavish generosity, like this one—
The people who open their hearts to another
And without even knowing it,
Swing open the door of desire
And welcome me in.