"Write down one thing you are thankful for," said my friend. "Just one."
When I learned there was a plan to translate the complete edition of Kierkegaard's journals and notebooks, I was dubious as to the need. I was dead wrong.
Flannery O’Connor never wrote just for herself, God, and an elite group of peers. She was eager for an audience with ears to hear about grace.
The journals of Merton, Woolf and others encouraged me to see my birthday as a new beginning—and to live my 50th year as a year of jubilee.
After a couple of years of sweating over each syllable, I suddenly needed the words. I hungered to write them. On vacations, my family urged me to take a break and I became cranky. What happened? How did the words begin to grow like wildflowers that I no longer had to coddle?