Most credos I’ve read start with the words I/we believe. I won’t do that, or maybe better put, I can’t do that. My credo, if it can even be called such a thing, rides piggyback on the slithering black curved back of the lovely question mark. I don’t have many answers, but I do have questions… Why is it that my father raised me on a diet of the King James Bible and western movies that, as it turned out, was magically delicious? Why is it that I live out West and love out West but I’ll always be from the South? Why am I most at ease in those in-between moments of dusk? Why am I a storyteller who, unlike a historian, must follow the trail of compassion wherever it leadeth? Why do I not equate talking with thinking? Why do I try to not run yellow lights, ever? Why do I prefer the words melancholy to organized and ache to closure? Why do I put all my eggs in the basket of grace, a grace that if its grace at all will one day drive me to my glass-clearly-knees as I whisper simply amazing? Why do I cry every time, every blessed time, when Linus says lights, please and gives his that’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown speech? Why do I feel in the very marrow of my bones that contrary to wildly successful first lines, it actually is about you…and me?