I hope that I can get Christmas together. I keep buying journals over the years and I notice that I usually say that I want to write in them more. But I just can't write a word sometimes and remain true to myself. My journal's are my shadow. They hold my depth and substance and my refusal to be known. I refuse my roles. If I write the truth of my life, I both believe and fear it would be at someone else's expense. I don't want to hurt the ones I love if my journals are read. And I have been raised to believe my journals will be read by the future. I would rather be remembered for my gestures, quietly. A letter. A meal. A walk together. My touch. I like living on a private plain. My mom gave me my voice by proclaiming hers: directly, honestly, and, at times, shockingly. When Ben and I went to tell her we were getting married fifteen years ago this month, she said, "Why? Are you pregnant?!" When I answered her, no, we were getting married in the temple she looked sad, and said, "Why would you want to get married so young?" I believe my own voice continues to be found wherever I am being present and responding from my heart, moment to moment. My voice is born repeatedly in the realm of uncertainty.

B