The writer-learning this past year has become exponential. I’m in school for the blind – those who grope with longings for word songs, expressions of the literary, or simply to craft solid sentences. It’s been coming along.

From the first, though, probably ever since long, long ago when “Deanna and the Alligator” formed at the dull point of a chunky pencil on paper huge-ruled, with dashes between the lines for help forming lower-case “e”, I have sought meaningful content. A few times over two past decades, what I’ve wanted to show and tell has worked for others. But still I reach for that original idea, one that’s good for me, good for you. Not that I’ll ever hold it firmer than a grasp of sand.

But yesterday morning, settling back into a Newport, Oregon hotel’s fourth-floor comfort, I welcomed a clue. While the sky pinked and the moon-cast swells donned leopard patterns before breaking, I savored a new possibility. Maybe I owe my life to this. To these. To all of it. My life, no one else’s. Shaped, as it were, by elements unrelenting under moon and stars.

It’ll be something to see if these perhapses given this December morn will survive the earth’s turning and further illumination.