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I didn’t lift a finger to determine who my parents would be, my race, my gender, my prospects for good health, or the country into which I’d be born, yet all of these factors and more shaped what has followed.
It all came down to chance. The spin of a wheel. The roll of some dice. A lottery.

These past two weeks, I’ve been moving through places that I have thought of as home, steeping myself in the memories each one contains. The journey left me wondering if I even know what home truly is. The answer was no clearer when I got off the plane in San Diego on Monday night. Instead, it felt like washing up onto a foreign shore.

I’m going to write this week about journaling. I warn you though, at any minute, I could go dark, really dark. Four o’clock in the morning dark, a time with which I’ve become intimately and reluctantly acquainted.