15th August 2012
It's my birthday. For me a day of reckoning, a day when I allow myself to look back, to look forward, to yes, be present as well, but to count blessings, and to state where I would like to journey. And today, I allow myself to be lonely, to be glad, I allow the tears held back for so long, and today, I count the many many blessings of being me.
The past is past. And private. Sacred even. The future -- I want to write a book for me.
I want to write a book where the words will fly out of the ends of my fingertips, where the heart and the soul and the body and the room and the house or cabin or loft or shed or a mansion or meadow or glen or forest will be filled with the light of the inspiration of this book – the book I write for me.
I know this "zone" of inspired detachment but don't like the word zone - too metallic. I prefer enchantment. I have been there before, been blessed with fleeting visits to that elusive, provocative, enchanted realm, granted to artists as though gifted by the faeries.
It does not matter if anyone reads this yet to be written book.
And if anyone should read it, it should be Hugh. But he is dead.
So I will write it for me.
Birthday Breakfast. Yummm.
Aa' the best.
Happy BirthdaY! Thank you for your beautiful words; rays of enchantment have reached me here in Sydney. I look forward reading this book.
ReplyDeleteThank you - I'd love to read it too --one day
DeleteThis I know for sure - if you write it for you then everyone will want to read it, because deep and heartfelt expressions like these are compelling. I hope you had a joyfull day.x
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