Sometimes I feel so much love. It fills my chest and runs to every single last cell in my body, head to toe, tips of fingers and under nails, it’s so strong and so concrete it’s almost palpable. And it feels like love. I think it’s my love for the universe, for life, for being alive, for feeling so completely, I think it’s my love for me, for my story that brought me here, despite everything, to this point where my body is still capable of being flooded by love, and the immense gratitude that comes from deep within that my heart (and toes and tips of fingers) can still feel all this. Despite all the times I have been hurt. Despite the many nights I have cried in despair and utter loneliness. Despite the deepest wound that was my Father’s passing so very many years ago. I am still standing. And still kicking. And still capable of such incommensurable love that could fill the whole world or the whole room and that could enhibriate a worthy lover were such gods living on my bed (how I understand you Florbela Espanca, about gods and mere men*). I am. Therefore I am thankful. This ball is mine for the taking.