I would have been a scholar. Maybe a philosopher. Or maybe a writer. I would have sat and discussed the issues of life and death with others who cared, and I would have been respected in the time before text message spelling and bad sitcoms lowered human intelligence.

This afternoon we dropped our 16-year old off at the university library so he could do some research. Students from his high school have privileges there. My husband asked me if I ever miss college life, and I immediately answered Yes.

If I could go back (if it were financially feasible) I would like to get my MFA (Master of Fine Arts). I completed my Ph.D. in 1985 and sometimes I think I should have waited to finish my degree until I was older and more certain of what I wanted to do with my life. I still love the area of social sciences, but now I would like to concentrate on being a novelist. Having an MFA would not only help me refine my craft but I think it would also lend me some credibility, and help me build contacts in the literary world.

But we have three sons in college, two of whom still need our help, so if I do go back to school it will not be for many, many years. Not until our youngest is finished. He's in 9th grade now. I hope he gets a scholarship.

I haven't whispered in many, many years. It's difficult for me to do, and it's impossible for me to hear someone who's whispering.

Some place tropical would be nice. Ocean breezes and a warm sun. The weather here in Kentucky has been good lately but it's getting colder and for the last three days we haven't seen the sun. The gray days are closing in on me. So I would like to close my eyes, click my heels, and find myself somewhere with constant sunshine.

The first time I remember being proud of myself was in fourth grade. The teacher told us to bring in a poem for a class anthology and I decided to write my own. Everyone raved over it and called me a poet. That was the first time I thought of becoming a writer.

I also had smaller things to be proud of. I was the only one in our family who could climb the tree in our backyard all the way to the top. I was also the first one in our elementary school to climb the rope in the gym to the top. And, of course, I could peel an orange in only one peel!

God is everything to me. He created me and sustains me. He has given me all that is good in my life and helped me with all that is difficult. God is constantly present in my life, as He is in the life of everyone, and He knows everything whether visible or hidden. These aren't platitudes. This is my belief.

When I was young, in high school and college, and life seemed to offer a million different possibilities, my favorite color was red. Sharp and dynamic. Full of life. Now that I've settled down and I want my life to be calm, my favorite color is blue. Blue like the sky on a sunny day. Blue like the ocean in quiet waters.

I also love green, like the leaves on the trees and the grass on rolling hills. Some of the trees outside my bedroom window still cling to their green leaves. I'm not looking forward to the day when the leaves turn brown and blow away.

Early last May my right knee started hurting. That wasn't too unusual because I sometimes still suffer from an old high school injury, especially when it rains. We had quite a bit of rain in May. But by the end of the month I was having trouble walking. In June I was using a cane. By July I was in a wheelchair. I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't know what any doctor could do about it.

Because I couldn't walk, I also couldn't cook, and because of my extreme food allergies I couldn't eat the food others had cooked for me. As my knee deteriorated, so did the rest of my health. I already have an underlying chronic condition, and that worsened along with everything else. Toward the end of July I went to see my oncologist for a regular appointment. She called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital. There was a time, I am told, when everyone thought I would die.

But I didn't, and on July 31 I was released from the hospital. Since then I have worked to gradually increase my health and my strength.

So I find contentment in many things. Being able to walk on my own. Gaining weight. Being able to eat some of my favorite foods again. Spending time with my family. Simply being alive.

It's amazing how a serious illness can put everything else into perspective.

In my husband's arms.

Must I choose only one? Should I say I prefer the theater or films, where human emotion is reenacted and given a face? Should I pick music instead, with tones and beats that play my feelings and leave me singing? What about paintings that move me and inspire me to write? What about the written word, my own art form, that shamelssly manipulates the reader and leaves them wanting more?

Art moves me.