I really wanted to write yesterday. I wanted that feeling of sitting back and witnessing as word after word pours onto the page. I wanted to be astonished, uplifted at what was coming through me! To give birth to something needing to be born.
And nothing came.
Who are these people who can write while in the depths of despair? The ones who write their best work on the spiral down…who are they? I cannot do it. Sadness leaves me stagnant. Grief fences me in. No for me it is an openness of heart that allows that which wants to be expressed to come through.
For it is not I who writes.
Yes it is my fingers striking the keys. It is my eyes glimpsing the screen. But the words…the words come from some place else. They come from some divine melting pot of thoughts, loves, hurts and joys. They originate in an energy field of hope, prayer and potential…buzzing and bursting and waiting for their turn.
And I am the conduit.
I am the one who allows. But I have noticed that this vessel needs to be vibing with love. I need to breathe easy, speak calmly, sit quietly. This is what is required for the spirit to move me. Anything less results in just that.
But with a chest wide open, a mind at relative peace and a willingness to express, I join with that which wants to arrive! I rub shoulders with the force that wills love into this world. I am made better. I am of service. And with effortless poise and ease, I write.