Eight photo albums condensed into one. Fifteen years into a hundred pages of age 18, 21, 25, 27, 30, 32…

Age 33.

Rebirth and reinvention.

So many memories placed among trash and wads and things discarded, I’d almost feel regret if I hadn’t decided to not make a shrine of grief in mind and heart and soul long ago. I deserve this moment of being and the joy to know-




It is easy to cling, to clutch, to hang on. To feel guilty for having the audacity to say goodbye, fare thee well. But cherishing isn’t always found in the keeping, sometimes it’s found in honoring what came to pass by creating new space to grow.

I set free those pictures of younger years. Recycled, released, repurposed, rezoned.

And now I sit with just one book- the highlights of my “coming of” years.

Coming of Age.

Coming of Self.

Coming of Soul.

(Age 34 and the pages went blank. I chose new space, I chose myself. I chose my soul. I chose…)

Coming of Home.