I have been so caught up in working on my book that I have not taken the time to enter the flow of intuitive writing, which I love to do. So I am going to clear my head and do that before something else snags my feeble little mind.

I have this to say. In spite of loss and sorrow and not wanting to go on alone, I have, I have. I have conquered innumerable fears for no other reason than it was time. The flow carries us even against our wills. What a mystery we are enacting while we brush our teeth and then eat chocolates before bed. When we strain at gnats and swallow camels. And truffles. And that is who we are.

And who we are not.

For the great mystery is contained within us. It is flowing like wine and congealing like aspic. It is breaking our self-concepts into smithereens and dashing us into the pilings of the cosmic pier. The tsunami of the Self is bearing down on us and we are rushing for cover. No more time for tweeting and blogging and texting while we drive. Too late. It’s always too late.

And there is never enough time to turn our lives around by taking thought. That bus pulled out of the station long ago.

And so we fritter our lives away while cancer or AIDS or whatever is taking someone’s life tonight. And somewhere hearts are breaking and stomachs are tight with dread and nurses bring pills and patients go suddenly quiet and leave on a mystery train.

And who we are suddenly kicks in.  And we do something great. Or not. And maybe a crack opens up in our psyche and an angel wings past it and we feel a chill.  And then we know that we are not alone.

And that we are standing on holy ground and wearing mismatched socks and it’s okay.

And so it goes.