Yesterday, I posted an entry around 8 AM. It was nicely written enough, but something was so wrong about it that I went into a crisis kind of state. Knowing it was hanging in cyberspace, I wanted to throw up. Finally, around noon, I deleted it—breaking one of my own rules. I’ve only deleted entries twice before.

I remained in distress, as though I were a stone plummeting. I'd lost perspective about myself, the people in my life, what I do or don't do. Nothing shifted until I was driving home at the cusp of a lightning storm. I was thinking about the weekly Brezsny horoscope I’d read that had seemed so irrelevant. I mean—what problems did I have that might devour me? I was doing pretty good.

Well, something seemed to be devouring me now. I tried to shift my mood, away from plummeting stone toward, as Brezsny advised, gargantuan natural force rising from within the perfect storm. No ounce of force surfaced within me. Then, as I was stopped at a light, windshield wipers sweeping, a truck drove before me with big blue letters blazed on its side: The Perfect Storm.

I didn’t feel good immediately, but there was the spark of humor. The self I was rejecting, the truth in me I was devaluing, supported by a friendly little white truck.

The sky cleared at dark, and for the first time since I’ve been here, I saw a satellite and constellations. Seeing the Big Dipper point to the North Star, I regained my bearings.