I want to talk about faith.

To understand it. To hold it. To feel it so strong that it will hold me up. To be able to pick it up and put it in my pocket. To be able to rely on it. Text it when I need to.

But faith refuses.

It doesn't want to be talked about. Nor to be understood. It's not my Facebook friend. It's just a silent ever-present witness. A witness that I either allow or ignore. Just outside of my peripheral vision. And if I turn my head too quickly, I lose sight.

I have lost many things in my life. My mother. My business. My home. My marriage. My family. My friend.

But none compare with losing my faith.

Because losing faith means losing life, self, and the belief in love. Because losing faith means giving up.

And we can't give up.

Even when we want to.

Even if we have every right to.

So I want to talk about faith.

I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. A little piece of heaven surrounded by ranches, farms and ocean in the middle of the California coast line.

This morning, I took advantage of an unusually-blank weekday morning and jumped in my car to go to one my favorite running trails about 20 minutes from my house.

Mornings can be utterly gorgeous in this valley. For the short time that California is green - it’s almost arrogant with its vibrancy. Showing off for the sky.

But not today.

Nope. Just grey. Subdued.

Rounding the bend into the valley, to the left you can see all the way into wine country. And the hills beyond. To the right, you look up the valley to the ocean. Beyond the ranches.

And today there was a single horse in the middle of the field.

Surrounded by vultures. In an equidistant circle.

There had be at least 30 of them. Sitting there. Ring-around-the-rosie all facing the horse.

My heart sank. Something is wrong.

I got to my trail but couldn’t shake the thought of that horse and those vultures.