I am seeing the light of a new day. Deep down the iceberg is still there, but I am now floating on one little piece of it. While it is still under me, I have things to do. Not things of my own will, not at all. Things of the spirit that will not be denied.
I am a medicine woman of sorts. It has taken me so long to see that. This body of work I have accumulated is worthless, for it is given in the moment for the moment. It doesn’t matter if it is remembered. I used to think it did.
The words arise from such a deep place in me that I could never call it mine. I came into the world to give this gift, not to be acknowledged for it. Mea culpa, as Leonard Cohen urges us to say. Mea culpa.
I am here to serve, not to save the world. I am here to take full responsibility for my part in the evils of this world. It has ever been thus.
This is a crisp new dollar bill of a day. Let me use it to serve my maker. Nothing else matters. Let my writing offer solace not brilliance. Let my words bring healing not admiration. Only then can I be said to love.