And so it begins...

"I wake up every morning both determined to change the world and have one hell of a good time.
Sometimes this makes planning my day a bit difficult."
- E. B. White -

It will start in 4 hours. We will start fighting something big, something bigger than ourselves. We fight for the innocent, we fight for what's right...

I drove back in the dark of night, the light from the streetlights passes through the windshield and matches perfectly with the lyrics floating from the stereo,

...lights will guide you home and ignite your bones...

How approprite. I came from one of those meetings. One of those times in your life when you sit down with good people, you know what you're doing is right. There is ignition. My heart is alive. I feel like I could stay up for hours.

This is me. I was put here to change the world, I am here to lead my people. I think it is about time I start listening to that calling.

This will be a wildly fun ride. Someone clear my calendar.
I have work to do.

I will always come home...

We lay on his couch watching "West Wing," the light from the TV playing across my face. His left arm is draped over my chest and from behind I can hear the steady rythm of his breathing.

The warmth of his breath on my neck tickles and makes the little hairs stand on end. I take a deep breath, no longer watching, and instead lay there, trying to record the moment so that years from that moment I can recall the feeling of just being there.

It feels like home. That moment, his presnce, the serenity of that place in time - it is home I've never felt before.

He breathes in deeply. I turn my head to look a him. He blinks heavily then gives me a weak and tired smile - breathtaking. I tilt myself up and then stand, taking a moment to right my balance. I reach for his hand and tug gently. He resists, but I coax him to the bedroom and tuck him snugly into bed.

It feels like home. This place of his, just as much as my place feels like home. I like this, being with him, caring for him.

I walk back to the living room softly to turn off the TV and the kitchen light. I check to make sure the door is locked then go crawl into bed next to him. He lays on his side, so I scoot up next to him and take him in my arms. He sighs contentedly and drifts into a deep sleep.

It feels like home. To have him in my arms is unspeakably peaceful. This is what I've wanted, what I've searched for.

He waited. I found him. Our two spirits united. Love blosomed fast and sure. He loves me like I had always dreamed.

Tonight he is away and I am here alone. It feels empty, chilled. It will be a long night. But I can rest easier remembering his most solem promise to me:

I will always come home...

We will begin before the beginning...

I sit alone in my childhood bedroom, under a cream-color quilt, the night already half finished. Jake nibbles first on my elbow, then presses his cold nose into my arm, he's desperate for attention tonight, but I'm much more interested at the words flowing out in front of my long-tired eyes.

They're open because of what I've just witnessed, a thing I hoped I'd never see: my mother crying, my mother in pain.

I think back to all those times I'd endured major surgery, six now counting wisdom tooth removal with only general anesthetic. She would sit there by my side, feeding me Jell-O, crackers, and prescription narcotics. I think even further back to a simpler time.

When I was six we lived in Las Vegas, Nevada. I'd gotten a nasty bug and slept for most of the day causing both my mother, a schoolteacher, and me to miss school. I woke up in late afternoon, the sun getting lazy and starting to droop back down over the horizon. Blueberry muffins were waiting, a dozen of them piled up on a plate sat on the edge of my dresser, waiting for me to wake.

To this day, the thought of blueberry muffins makes me think of how much my mother loves me. It's a good feeling, warm and fuzzy, much like the quilt I'm under now, but it offers nothing of the same feelings.

Mom just went through a rough surgery to help end pain that would not end itself, but now she's hurting in completely different ways. To see her cry, it wrenches at my heart. A child never expects to see its mother cry. It is a powerless feeling, standing there still, praying to your own Gods and a million others, offering the whole of your soul if they will take that pain away so she might have peace enough to sleep a few hours before the sun peeks through the windows at dawn.

My father and I make her as comfortable as possible and I duck away, unsure what the feelings inside might cause me to do. So I sit and pour out words, hoping it will be of some solace.

Jake plays at my feet, attacking them, his tail, and my feet again, then dives off the bed and sits mewing and pawing at the door. The words help, but hope that my prayer will be answered; that the Overseer will grant her a little peace tonight.

And as the flow of words returns to a drip, Jake at my side again purring and staring up at me with expectant eyes, begging for more attention, I realize how fitting that my childhood home should be where my story begins...