In order for me to write, a practice I began when I was 14*, I must be living in a harmony of gratefulness and a quaking of the intensity of meaning of living. This can come in quite peace, overwhelming ecstasy, bitter sorrow, or grief, a fellowship of being in relationship with the Ancient of Days, the earth and cosmos, my lover, my memories, and other people.
It can also stop coming when I am in conflict, under stress based on circumstances, or suffering some great illness or pain.
I write every day. If I can’t, I try to discover why I can’t and try to write about that. This is why I am writing this.
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