sometimes it’s best to start writing with no idea of what words might arrive, almost stream of conscious, only with just a bit of consideration for whatever theme is weaving through the words. Long ago I committed myself to words on a page, daily, and to not be concerned for my own opinion of their quality and worth, that their value would be inherent to my commitment. I haven’t missed a day of writing in almost 25 years, even if it’s been a quickly expressed memo written in poetic fashion.
every word matters to my commitment.
this isn’t a streak that I’m trying to continue, it’s not a consecutive day count that only matters for its length of years now. My commitment to keep the channel of inspiration open, to always be receptive to the flow of words even if there seems to be a struggle to stay open for their appearance, or there’s a lack of opportunity to be as creative as I might wish.
there’s no excuses made.
inspiration only cares that I’m willing to present for its arrival, aware of this creative opportunity, and that I give even a small time to notice the holiness of its presence. Words are gifted to me each morning and I return this favor through attention, a portion of these early hours devoted to their appearance. I don’t expect everything written to have great meaning, nor to always be able to offer insights that are poetically expressed. But sometimes a certain magic happens, maybe with only a line or two weaved through an extended prose that strike me with deep pleasure for their beauty.
I write for that moment when the magic happens.
whenever that might be.
and my commitment is to provide myself as presence for its appearance, available for every word that’s gifted.
my commitment is to magic.