I was never one to keep a diary or journal. Probably there were too many things I didn’t want to know. But now I find myself grateful for every word I’ve written.

My own words are a sort of relief map— revealing the topography of my days. That was the valley, that was the winding passage. Here is where I learned this. Memory speaks, reorients me to what is true.

My life itself is a book, a sure guide if I will take the time to record what today is saying.