Hence, my memoir has gone from a narcissistic exercise in solipsism and self-pity to a tool for self-observation and tangible insight. Like an archeologist looking for clues and secrets of the past through chipped stone axes, I have gone through my life, digging out of the sands of oblivion old skeletons and lost memories, some of which were still causing me inexplicable physical ailments.
And like an archeologist, I had to dust off those relics and strive to match them with others in an effort to complete the puzzle of their origin and significance. Transcending my pain and tears and anger, I have cleansed and pieced together those vestiges of my past and displayed them in plain sight for everyone to see, for they no longer define who I am, if they ever did. The truth will set you free, they say. Since I figured that out, I have lived my life one moment at a time with added fervor while eating the stars.
Last night, I sat in darkness, oblivious of time, mesmerized by the starry firmament and full moon shining over snow in the backyard.
The cypresses lined up, and tall pines towered high—all stood still as they witnessed the flutter of a guiding angel’s wings cast a passing shadow under the silvery light.
I thank thee, Sweet Mother, for leading me to the joy of being and true meaning of bliss!
THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO Page 34