Sometimes, no, countless times in my life, I have turned away from what love said.

Love said, “Sing.” Love said, “Write.” Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I had to. Sometimes I found myself absolutely fascinated with, say, reorganizing my file cabinet or cleaning the kitchen cupboards with an astonishing passion that I simply could not resist. Fear has so many disguises to learn to decipher.
I used to fight with myself this way until I made myself cry, which helped me remember what I really needed.
Or what I needed at that time. Sure, organization and time management help. But what was sometimes more elusive is the reason I needed to do art.
It used to be so easy for me to forget the very large, live and essential part of my being that is unknown– that amorphous ocean that throbs and pumps life into me, sends roots out into the world seemingly through time and space and is there to nourish me, IS me. It is so easy for me to identify with the part of me that can THINK, SPEAK or DO–with or without plugging into my wholeness.
Love says, “Shhhh. Listen. Feel all of you.”
I have the sense that when at my best, I am an attentive translator who listens fully, down through the tips of my furthest most delicate and finely attuned tendrils, and discovers divisions melting away.