Somehow I simultaeously feel like giving up and also forging ahead. And yes, I'm talking about writing.

Last night, during a guided meditation, I crossed paths with my great grandmother. She was tending to a fire, but took the time to look over her shoulder and say, "The sun is still the sun." It felt like an answer to a question I didn't know how to ask or was afraid to ask.

She was one of the first people who fully saw me, who could interpret what I needed even before I could. She drove over an hour to my racist fundamentalist school for Grandparent's Day. She told me stories about her past without me having to ask her to. She watched Buffy with me.

Last week was another week of facing one of my deepest fears. I can't pretend that it didn't gut me. I can't even imagine what's next. But I guess, holding on to what my great grandmother said in that meditation, that "the sun is still the sun," is something, an anchor of sorts.

Oh and for context, we watched Buffy (1992) together. She rented it from Blockbuster. Buffy for me, The Matrix (1999) for her, because she thought Laurence Fishburne was (and her words, not mine) "so fine."