I’ve decided that burning old letters and journal pages filled with whiney verbiage about life’s misery is great, and I plan on doing more of it. About 15 minutes ago, Jack and Henry found me out in the snow on the deck, blowing on the glowing red edges of the journal pages I had set alight on the grates of the grill. I can still smell the smoke in my hair and feel the thrill of accomplishment. I just told the past, in no uncertain terms: “You’ve got no hold on me. In fact, you don’t even exist anymore!”
Today is too important to worry about yesterday.