After my mother’s death when I was four there followed 9 years of physical, emotional and sexual abuse at the hands of the relatives entrusted with my care.

But 23 days after I turned 13 I found myself frozen in the door frame, neither in nor out of the house, my heart pounding, like a small frantic bird, my mind racing at the thought of what would happen if I were caught, and then it lept to what would happen if I stayed, and in that blinding moment I was in flight.

Across the back yard I flew, over the fence, across a feild, into the gathering night.

The next five years were spent between foster homes and Juvies and the streets of L.A. which were mean, even back in the summer of 1965. After that chaos and ruin dogged my steps until I could run no more.

It is these past 7 years that are the subject of this blog. It is here that I've worked out...so much.

At last I walk a path of largely balance and beauty. Come, walk with me for a while.