From a journal entry on November 3, 1995:
Whose turn is it? Whose turn this time? It’s my turn.
I’ve never thought about my turn as the turning around in a circle that belongs to me. But this one belongs to me. This turning around from the fleabites on my neck to the silence in my belly. My mind goes from the one to the other, to my children at school in Maine, to a dream I can’t quite remember, to the song I want to write, to a distant feeling of angst, to the focaccia I made but am not hungry for, to the fleabites again.
Not really in a circle. It’s more like…
It’s as if my mind were scribbling.
And when I allow this with kindness, my mind is completely lost in that place of utter absorption best known by small children with crayons. Their noses run, they are oblivious. And it’s not that what they’re doing is more important. It’s that they are. Their breath is the color growing more dense on the paper. Their body is the landscape receiving color. The world of trying to be with grownups goes away and all things are.
It’s my turn to be here. This turning around in my life, on this spot, belongs to me.