I’ve 11 minutes to type; it’s all one.

After that, I’ll climb up on my horse—an teal electric bicycle—and zoom into town for dance class.

This morning, to candlelight and the cool rush of wind, I healed three more monstrous beliefs that have been holding me down.

I’m afraid to be seen (like deathly afraid, all the time.)

I’m a failure.

I can’t remember the third.

The squirrel Tsk-Tsks his opinion down. Already, Christopher and I have spoken. Already I have gone across the street in my bathrobe to check with a flashlight to see if the sick or injured raccoon has moved on. He has. The empty sewer is the very best sight of my life.

There’s still the bubble in the ceiling where water has leaked from my shower. Expenses and unfolding challenges. I now hold Byron Katie like a lantern over my head. I chant, This moment is God, this moment is God. I hope to stay in the saddle. There are so many ways to separate from this moment, so many ways to suffer. All are needless, most are caused by our thoughts. I tremble. It’s true, I’ve had extra caffeine—I felt I needed it after healing all those beliefs. What was the third?

I slip back inside the moment, where all is always well. Where I am full and rich inside and out and reassured in all ways of God’s kindness. I’ve got this, and he’s got me. I didn’t capitalize “H” because God is beyond gender. God is the original transgender being. God also traveled into the Son the way he travels into bodies as us: So we can each get lost and find our way home. There are no bread crumbs. In each particle of human flesh wine becomes blood. Every life teaches something new. Like the fly’s eyeballs, multifaceted, we’re each a giant eye turning God toward her-himself. We are the many and the few. And thank goodness, if we stay in the saddle, we accomplish our mission. I hug this giant tree trunk of a moment like a wiggling bouncing bull. “Hang on!” I say.

“Stay.”