In the night, when the demons and spirits swirl around and I think of all the things I fear, the things I’ve suffered, the dangers in the world, I pause now and I think instead of the things I love about my life.

There is an art to loving my life. Like anything else that is worthwhile, it takes work and thought and patience and courage. This morning, I thought of Maria. Of our farm and life together. I thought of my writing and my photography. And of the new and precious friends I am making. I thought of the dogs and the animals here and of my blog.

I thought of my small town, my community, of the Round House Cafe, The Bog, the woman at my Rite-Aid who are so helpful to me. I thought of the deep forest, the woods, the hills, the light in the morning, my daughter in New York, the good carriage drivers who send me so many beautiful messages and wave to me when i walk in the park in New York.

I think of my Apple computer and my books and cameras, and of course, I think of me. If I can’t love me, I can’t love my life, and I am learning to love me, just as I am, the good me and the other me’s. And I think of the gift of teaching, of my class, where I am about to go this morning to share my Elixir. I suffer and tremble, like all of you, my life is not simple or perfect, nor would I wish it to be.

I love my typos and run-on sentences, they are all about my eagerness to write.

I love the people who read my books and my blog and send me the most wonderful messages and letters (P.O.Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816) they lift my spirits and remind me why I am on this earth. I am learning to love and be loved.

So this is my life and I love it, and I remind myself of that every morning. My friend Scott Carrino just called to interrupt this reverie and asked me if I would mind delivering some bread to Yushak’s market for him this morning. I love that he would ask me to do that, he is having a challenging day. On the way.