I woke up this morning with a melancholy drive to write. Who knows whence it came and who knows why? I certainly don’t. This experience is as much a part of me as my very breath. Always has been. Too many years I denied it. Too many years I put off the song of my heart for the vagaries of work and its “necessary” completion.
Don’t get me wrong. I understand the necessity of work. I just never allowed that my heart’s calling may just be the work for which I was meant to toil. And what toil that would be! To write and dream and pour into this world that takes itself far too seriously in many, many areas, and far less than it should in others – like the expression and embrace of innocence and beauty.
I began this writing with a connection to who I was-am-will-be, and…
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