"Rain falls, drip drop, leaning a slow, steady din into Ray Charles' crooning voice, aching strings. The roll of thunder. Wine slips down my tongue. Lightning softly flashes. Katie's fingers gently fight with ehr hair. Thunder echoes again. Again, I am feeling my heart swell, my gratitude release in tiny pulses of invisible energy, tenderly rustling the flower petals, the grass in the rice fields; lifting the wings of the flock of birds that dip and swerve, swoon in the cool air that glides low in the sky." I have many passages like this in my worn, leather bound notebook. My parents gave me this, and other notebooks like it, to fill with my reflections on the journeys I was to have one day. I wanted so badly to fill them with the details of my
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