One of the most difficult things in the world is to know who you really are. I’ve spent half my life now getting to know who my Self is: the good, the bad, and the ugly. For over two decades I’ve  followed the Greek maxim inscribed at the Temple of Delphi: “Know thyself.” And I think I do. I think I’m a salmon.

My eggs have all hatched. This is what I thought last week as I sat on the porch in the morning, my children back in school. I thought about them being gone, and about my book being finished, and my mother entering the last chapter of her life. I sat and I thought about a lot of things that have to do with the period of seemingly empty time between the end of one thing and the beginning of another.

how do we revive Soul—a subtle, invisible, formless, internal entity—living as we do in a noisy, gadget-gawking, consumption-oriented society that constantly pulls our attention away from our inner life?

The life of a writer is not as glamourous as you might think; it’s not all sweatpants and eating dry cereal out of the box and royalty payments stuffing the mailbox. This morning, for instance, I awoke from a spicy little dream and stared into the dark thinking about the dream and what it meant and trying to drag out the good feeling for as long as I could.

I had a boyfriend in college who knew from his first breath that he wanted to be a lawyer. I was hugely envious of this: he was so directed, his course so clear. I had no idea what I wanted to do, or who I was. This boyfriend used to say that I had a lot of stars in my heaven, a poetic way of saying that I was directionless.

I was very excited, at the beginning of this year, to welcome 2012. February would usher in the Year of the Dragon, an auspicious year, a year of power and dynamism. Having been born in a dragon year, I gleefully anticipated doubly good fortune with health, wealth, and a book deal raining down from the heavens.

Recently I met with a doctor who asked me what I did for a living. When I said I was a counselor he replied, “Thank you.” I must have looked at him quizzically because he immediately followed this by looking right at me and saying, “Thank you for doing that work. It’s so important.”

Standing in line at the market I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. I watched intently as she negotiated the checkout, toddler at her side, young baby in her arms.  What was it like, I wondered, having two? I was filled with curiosity, much as I once had been about pregnancy itself.

I love baseball. Okay, I love the San Francisco Giants. (I especially love it when they’re winning, which they are.) I think I most appreciate that, in baseball, each player has his unique style and contribution to make and his moment at bat, but his talent is only seen, is only really useful, in the larger context of playing as part of a team.

The other day when a friend asked me how I was I had the disquieting experience of hearing my response. What I heard was a well-worn repetition of a tired story–how I am (okay), how my husband is (not so okay), what the kids are doing, where my book is in its publication odyssey (otherwise known as Limbo)–and I thought, “I’m really tired of this story; it’s boring.” Then I thought, “I need a new story.”

The French, it is frequently noted, take the entire month of August for a holiday. Unlike Americans, they are not sensually challenged: their language is gorgeous, they treat food as a worthy pleasure and not some glob to be mindlessly scarfed while driving, they drink wine at lunch and dinner and they don’t blink at the idea of a mistress.

First, I want to thank the many kind people who have inquired about my well-being since last month’s column. Here’s the update: I’ve tried everything from shaman to MRI and I’m still in pain, the cause of which remains a mystery; but I did discover that I have three disintegrating joints in my neck, so at least I got something for my trouble.

Two weeks ago my daughter and I had a nasty little tumble from my bicycle, which plopped us rudely onto Third Street and left us battered and bruised. Being five, Sophia recovered at the speed of light. Being some decades past five, I am still purple and in pain.

“The pursuit of happiness” is an odd phrase in our Declaration of Independence. Like Justice Scalia, I imagine that I know what the founders meant by it, but it seems to me that the concept of “pursuing” happiness is wrong-headed.

Five hundred years ago cartographers, imagining what lay beyond the known borders of the earth, poetically wrote that beyond a certain point in the uncharted seas “there be dragons.”  Dragons are the mythological, metaphorical expression of our innermost fears; the sea they inhabit our unknown future.

My quiet little life of writing and drinking too much tea has lately given way to a crash course in social media as I prepare to move my book into the public eye. While I love being in the middle of a creative blitz, the cramming of technology as a second language (TSL) has me feeling slightly stupid, excessively amped, and generally off-kilter.

Winter is arrived, wrapping us in the deepest darkness.  The sun sits suspended on an invisible threshold, its solstice marking both an end and a beginning, a tipping point.  The power, the crisis of this moment, was keenly felt by our ancestors. 

In an effort to entertain my small, beloved progeny on a hot summer’s day, I devised a brilliant plan to take them to the Oregon Caves. The last time I’d been there, I was seven years old; in my childhood memory, it was fun. That was a long time ago.

My last return to Jacksonville closed the loop of a thirty-year meander that took me from Jacksonville to Chicago, San Francisco, back to Jacksonville, Ashland, Portland, San Francisco again until it siren-songed me back in 2002. By then l had accumulated a lot of stuff, most of which did not fit into a modest, circa 1889 house.

When I was a little girl, I loved searching for caterpillars on the milkweed plants that grew in abundance around our house. I would pluck one from the underside of a leaf and place it in my hand, stroking its smooth body with a tentative finger, carefully carrying it home in cupped hands to be re-homed in a mayonnaise jar, along with a stick and some leaves