Almost Always

Almost always:

almost always I find myself eager to write, every morning, just after sitting in meditation and then with coffee at hand and the sun just hinting at the start of day, ideas begin to form, words gather in phrase and theme — and the energy of writing then takes over. It’s that easy, with little stress and absolutely no strain involved within this process. Words either flow or I sit and wait for their appearance, patient, knowing how this all unfolds. And yet almost always I find myself enthralled by the mystery of it all, that words will appear isn’t ever in doubt, not really, but I never truly have a firm idea of where they might be leading, what their message is, and how their story will be told in final.

everything I write is mystery.

almost always.

it’s better this way, for me at least, as once I struggled with ideas, demanding inspiration to show on schedule and immediately meet all of my creative needs. Almost always I was disappointed. Inspiration doesn’t seem to care for my demands, beauty unresponsive to my call, and I was unwilling to humble myself in waiting, believing any talent in writing was my own and not simply a gift that somehow shows itself in a flow of words. Of course I was an unhappy writer, as anyone who claims such a title is when there’s a failure of words to appear.