Next, I pay attention to my surroundings: the iridescent green of a hummingbird whirring through the eucalyptus leaves outside my window. That enormous hawk I spotted sunning her creamy chest in the sun’s early rays high on a redwood spire. My mother always said she wanted to be a bird in her next life. Now I’m sure of it. I imagine her spreading her spirit wings at dawn, then nesting with them again at dusk.

Stories are like mushrooms. Who knows where they start or end?   Perhaps you stumble across one on a walk in the redwoods at dusk after a spring shower has drenched the earth and the conditions are just right. The setting sun streaks the trees in glowing bronze.

Writing a memoir is like setting off on a long journey, destination unknown. Straining under the weight of your own baggage – most of it unconscious – you’re soon forced to sort your memories for what rings true and what does not, what to keep and what to toss. And...