A watched pot never boils. In an ongoing show of consideration, most of my dears have checked on in me during the writing process but have abstained from probing too deeply. I appreciate it because it’s afforded me the space to bask in the craft; memoirs have such cathartic potential and I have to say I’m feeling the love. As for the message, I could have copied the journals I’ve kept over the years but I’m not sure imparting every detail of each day would have made for a riveting read. From the changes brought on by the adoption of this or that Ayurvedic dietary precept to the ecstatic rediscovery during and after yoga that the body does indeed have its own pharmacological reservoir, I eschewed their inclusion for something less mundane. Those journal entries relay appointments, interactions, moodiness but the larger chronology, the purpose and byproduct of my current introspection, is the whole truth. I think… well, back to the (Himalayan pink) salt mines…
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