Being a spiritual writer is my passion and delight. Why? Because it comes from something deeper than the ego. All I do is open to the flow and let my fingers do the talking. I especially love it when they are funny or when they go so deep I sigh. At this moment, I have no idea what is arising. So let us wander down the page together, you and I.
Yesterday at my Cancer Wellness writing group we wrote about thankfulness. The leaves were a marvel of reds and golds (our writing room is in a tall building and the walls are glassed in on three sides. For some reason I wrote this:
There were too few days on earth with Laurie (my daughter). On one Thanksgiving, she and her brother, Rob, wore construction paper Pilgrim buckles on their shoes. My mother was here to visit and we gathered for the meal at our kitchen table. Such days went up in smoke. The smallest pilgrim died. So unfair. And I write of both big things and small. Construction paper buckles—what would they bring on eBay? What do they bring in a mother’s heart?
A sigh, a tenderness, a knowing how evanescent is this life. The littlest pilgrim always loved the black olives in the relish dish. Do I love less because she is gone—or more? Some days I don’t even remember I had such a child. But the heart never forgets. Her sly smile may be behind my writing. She sure hated for me to cry.
So the little writing group listened to each one’s writing in turn. There is always a choice as to whether you want to share or not. We finished the session with some poetry-writing. Here is mine:
Looking requires a soft alertness.
A wilting of the
A relaxing of the stance.
Being requires of you but one thing.
That one thing is itself the
answer to why you are here