Greetings from the cave.

You probably know what I mean.  Those times and spaces–often in winter, or following a loss, or preceding an anticipated cataclysm–when we turn inward and linger there.

There is nothing particularly cataclysmic on my horizon–other than the ordinary miracle of the human condition–but I have a job to do: I’m writing a memoir.  And it requires my full attention.  My loyalty.  My ferocity.  I am a bear.

This is a memoir about loss and transformation.  But it is not heavy.  It is shot with light.  I am writing about deaths, divorces, and deflowerings.  I am also writing about food and sex and leaping off jungle cliffs into volcanic pools.  It’s not all hard, but some of it is.

This is the quiet time.  Starting in a few weeks I begin traveling and speaking again.  So I must take advantage of this access to the cave.  This refuge of relative stillness.  This invitation to dwell in darkness.  If I don’t answer when you knock, I know you’ll understand.  You may be hanging out in a cave of your own.

My love to you.

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