When I arrived home for work, I spent nearly two hours reading through my blog. I imagine that you are tired of reading that I am tired...

Reading through the entries was a bit disturbing for me. I realize, given my diminished cognitive capacity, this blog will serve as a great archive of my life, a place where I can read what I have so easily forgotten. However, I did not enjoy reading through the grief and hurt I allowed those folks at my previous job to inflict upon me. It was a job. It was professional, not personal. I feel weak in that I essentially put myself in that position and am ashamed at how long it took me to set aside that hurt.

Reading through the entries, I find myself to be rather boring, most often reflecting upon how ill I felt. I did not like the reminder of how rarely I actually feel good. I found myself dismayed at how often I reflect on the fact that I just don't fit in well with the human race. I was disappointed because I find little uplifting in my words.

I set about reading through those entries because I am trying to remember something.

I've written before how I would find myself sleeping with the laundry because I had yet to fold loads that had been washed sometimes weeks before. Lately I have been better about that, putting clothing away the same day it is washed.

Most often it is books that share my bed. I sleep with two or three tucked beneath my pillows. These are in addition to the books piled on the nightstand next to the bed and stacked on the floor beside it. My bible is there, the book I reach for most when I have bad dreams, when I am restless, when I want to savor the wonder of God's word. I also usually have one non-fiction book and a book of poetry beneath the pillows. The book I read before I fall asleep is sometimes placed back on the nightstand and sometimes held in my hand as the dark claims me.

Sometimes I wonder if I managed to land a husband where he would fit in the bed besides the eight pillows, the three or four books, and the one puppy dog (I have not yet figured out how the birds could sleep with me).

Anyhow, I was digging socks (I wear them to bed, but kick them off during the night) and books and eye blinders out of the bed when I found this bookmark. It is a lovely, delicate silver bookmark that has a turquoise feather hanging from the end that curves over the spine of the book. Some time in the past it must have fallen out of a book. and I forgot that it had been there.

The forgetting part is par for the course. You should know that by now. However, this bookmark was a lovely, thoughtful gift from someone. Someone who knows how much I love to read. Someone who knows how much I value the Native Americans left in this country and would welcome a product of their hands. Someone who cares about me sent this bookmark and I have not a clue who that was.

So, I set to reading through my blog to see if I could find out who gave it to me. Such a gift surely would have been recorded, if only to honor the giving and savor the receiving. However, I was too distracted by what I was reading to stick with my plan. As much as I would like to know the answer to my question, there is too much of my recent past I have no desire to revisit just now.

I suppose it will have to remain a mystery for now. I just wish there were less mysteries in my life...less mysteries and more memories.