Light pours from my fingers at the keyboard. At work on the task of the moment, unveiling the mourning light. It is New Year’s Eve and a time for reflection. I am empty of all concepts, albeit only temporarily. I have a destiny from which most people would cringe. I write from mourning light. “There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in.”
Not for me the normal life. It was yanked out from under me when I was 32. I found a teacher and that filled my longing for higher answers. Once he left there has not been another. His light became mine. It is not a sweet soulful one, but a boat-rocking wrenching away from falsehood.
I am a carrier of consciousness, the kind that is believed to be too hard to bear. The kind that comes from burying your child, your spouse, your hopes and dreams. I can only give it through my writing and to receive it you must be in dire need of it.
Oh, I can write things that are wild and funny and impossibly simple. I have two books that refuse to sell. More written that need editing. But I may not ever see that happen, for my destiny is barreling along on its own course. It seems to be carrying me to what is and not what I wish was!
For far too long I have denied the power of my mourning light. God gave it to me for a reason. So that I could stand in consciousness for those in need of receiving it. I do not apologize for my life nor my penchant for speaking the truth. It drives people away. That is a good thing for it leaves me free in God.