The last few years of my life have been, well, like nothing I’d have ever expected or believed for that matter–in both good and bad ways. The seven or so years before this my life was quite productive and filling up with things like love, the obsession of staying busy or occupied (in my mind) so as not to journey too far into unknown territory–I was breaking down then but very very slowly which allowed me more time to work on me and see where I wanted my life to go. I met White Buffalo Woman who read my Animal Totems, I minored in Sociology (in love with the way people work, like you could actually map it–it thrilled me), I explored Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity a little, the Beat Generation, Alan Watts, meditation, looking at the world through wide open, fearless eyes, testing and sometimes criticizing, trying to see where I fit. For awhile I went through this phase (Emma was a baby then) that I had to move to India, or some kind of place away from materialism and media down my throat–I had to raise her where life was about living and being and using your hands. It drove me nuts.
In those seven somewhat healthy years, I went to college, I began to write and write (which turned into a pitched fever as a spelled out the past and I began to decline, in my late twenties), I made the Dean’s List, worked full-time, and had a baby girl, and all the while I had no idea who I was or what I had been (or what I was going to become).