I do not choose to write, whereas writing has chosen me as some sort of instrument from Spirit. It is the extension of words projected in a form of kindness, humility, but familiar echo, in a release similar to meditation. The words that I write are woven threads into a quilt of human emotion. They are not meant to shock or awaken anything. They exist on a page as a thought-provoking tool. Many times, they exist just to allow me to help myself.
There are times that I go days without writing and a part of me goes numb. As soon as I start to write again, my spirit comes alive. There are also moments throughout the night that a poem awakes me, nagging, pulling and wanting my attention. The more I ignore it, the less I can rest. It is only when I give into its calling that I can finally release magic into my life.
Do these words do their job? I don’t quite know for sure but every so often something penetrates or touches the person reading it. I don’t know how they come out or how I write them. God speaks through each letter, word, paragraph and message. I often read them and I am in awed at the simplicity, yet the complexity of some of the messages through poetry, essays or in my private journals. Some are deeper than others, these conclusions and examples of my life. Some are intended for me alone and I choose not to share them. I am to hold on to them and years later (as it has happened many times) re-read them and the message has pertained with such faith and knowledge that it is beyond me to understand.
Looking back at the trail of human emotions in my life, I see the pattern of words changing; yet they are synonyms for the same messages. They are right in front of my eyes and, like difficult pieces of a puzzle, the words must be placed in correct alignment. It is easier said than done. I don’t pretend to know it all. I write to survive. Writing is like morphine to my nervous system. It calls on me to let the dance of emotions out onto a page. I am surprised each time I finish a piece of work. I am also shocked when I share it. Finally in this stage of my life, I allow another to judge or witness my spirit through my writings.
I write because life is just like the poems — very complex and overly rated because we make it that way. There are too many of our efforts side-tracking our intents. I see my life from another view when I write. I understand it much better. I accept it easier. With all my faults, neurotic behavior, and traumas there is peace inside. It is there inside my soul echoing to help others find their path if just by sharing a small example of an unfinished life. We are connected in this way. We get to travel similar paths.
This is my passion: these words on a screen. As I write this, I pray for the many people who don’t believe in searching for their passion. I write in order to survive my journey. It has picked me. I know that the many times I have avoided placing those words on paper anger and frustration becomes too much to handle.
Few things I know for sure and one of them is that I have been presented with this ability. I don’t take credit for it because it comes from Source. I am just the messenger. How and what I do with it is my choice. As I write these words I know in the pit of my heart that I am deeply blessed. There is no mistake about it. I don’t suffer from depression but when the anxiety of the unknown kicks inside the only way to control the attack is to let go through the composition of letters, words, and paragraphs. And I hope and pray that, you, reading this can find an outlet to the stories of your life and learn to live with passion.
I thank you for joining me here, in the space between the comas and periods. I am blessed for those who return and express that they have received a message of hope. This is why I write…to send my love out into the universe in hopes that someone catches it in their hearts. Mucho love….Millie