My book is something that gives me great satisfaction. Born out of suffering and sorrow, it
slowly evolves into a peaceful acceptance. That doesn’t mean I am rid of suffering, for I am only human. But as I write, I visit the memories with a higher and finer energy. That is what being a writer on the path does for one. It clarifies and sorts out the wheat from the chaff. It elevates first the writer and then, hopefully, the reader.
Last night I was gifted with a wonderful dream. I had moved into a smaller but shabbier house. There was a wise woman ensconced in the kitchen who was writing a book. I didn’t much like her being there, but before she left, she gave me the book. It was handwritten on pink paper and looked just like a small book I wrote years ago.
Two young women were in the house as well. They called out to me that there had been a miracle. Bob had taken some medicine and died and his body was on the floor in the living room. But his spirit body was lying outside, where he had been seen playing the cello. (In real life, Bob had a tin ear.) I am not sure what the dream means, but I can venture a guess.
My writing comes from the place in me that is familiar with the deep tones of the cello. I write to honor the place in us which is ever-beautiful and strong. To do that, I must also honor the breaking of the ego’s shell, which is never easy.
So Bob is in a better place and I move back and forth between the world of the opposites. I am quite sure he sometimes stands beside me as I write. He did this sometimes in life. My desk is our old dining table littered with computers and the miscellany that writing entails. He used to hit his head on the chandelier that hung above the table. Once when he was showing me how to use the fax machine, I asked him jokingly when I should hit my head on the chandelier. “Anytime you get ready,” was his answer. Ready when you are, Mr. DeMille.
Life is, after all, about acting. We act for others, to keep them from knowing how wounded we are, or how scared we are of the dark. My writing begins in darkness, trailing the light along my fingers until something breaks open and I go, “ah”….
LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT may be ordered by clicking on the book cover in the right hand column.