fear is a driving force which causes you to leap before you’re ready and fall into the chasm you were trying to, carefully, bridge. fear isn’t faith or trust or, most importantly, love. fear is a stake they drive through your heart so you may not feel your way into answers anymore, so you may act based on instinct, based on survival instinct and run from the lion in the woods into an open field where the cross-hairs of a cold, cruel rifle that hunts for sport wait. at least the lion throbs with life, kills for food, for his own basic survival.

fear does not like roses. fear cannot enjoy their beauty in sight or smell or touch or taste. fear has no time for roses.

fear is people telling you “time is of the essence” and they may as well be standing behind you chanting “jump jump jump jump jump jump jump jump” while you’re on the edge of a cliff and don’t know how to swim which, here, is an irrelevant skill, really, because what lies at the bottom is not water but rocks and you don’t want to jump you want to climb down the cliff and that, too, is not without danger but, at least, death isn’t certain. at least you can feel your way down the side.

they want you to jump. they want to stop chanting. they want to go home.

roses, instead, are love.


i felt the ground open below me and i fell.
i felt myself falling and falling but calmly so
calmly that i sighed and began softly to fly
and the hand which had torn open the ground
was outraged for how dare I not cry and cry
and give up and die, and how dare I find myself
when the hand had made such great attempts
to lure me into dark forests and turn me around.

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when you listen to an urge to look and you pay attention where called and notice a familiar pattern curling towards you, like a creeping plant reaching for the nearest fence or wall or post, anything to cling to, take a step back. and then another. and another. now you know what has been conjured up. what does it all mean? the only mistake would be to stand still. not everything deserves your curiosity.

and if a tendril has caught your toe, don’t rip it away. carefully untwirl it. let it find an unsung way.


I do not want to walk your straight lines:
I wish you’d keep them
and build yourself a box
into which you can lock yourself
which you seem to so enjoy;
I want the curve of the moon
and the roundness of meaning,
a neverending circle
of infinite possibilities.
Oh, you can have certainty!
I do not care for that
but for its counterpart in the shadows
we are taught to ignore
that is bursting with life.
we are rigid, you fail to see, when we die
and I am not ready to give up
the fat, fertile drops of rain
and the messages they contain

{to a man who tries to tell me to stop reading opinion pieces (and engaging with art) because he doesn’t do that and cannot bear to have me challenge his barren worldview. those of us who recognize the indispensability of art will never stop engaging with it and never stop creating it and finding ways, new ways sometimes, to express our own subjective perspectives to enrich the world and to say things that need to be said, that have to be said. may we always, always, always challenge those who denounce the importance of opinion and art. they are the oppressors of the world.}

bypass the linear

So adamantly, so seriously was I talking about my writing that my father commended me for finally settling into something. I was a little stunned because I have known since I was an adolescent that I wanted to be a writer, and in that moment I could only wonder where he has been for the last 20+ years of my life. I got a little glimpse of what happened in his mind when he went on to say that he thought I had spent a lot of time with other things, such as languages (French, Italian, Sanskrit) and life coaching, and he was glad to see me finally picking one thing and getting serious with it.

But, when it comes to being creative, I don’t think I’ve picked one thing and I’m not sure I ever will. I don’t see why I have to. I may go back to a language to explore it in greater detail; I may pick up the thread of inner-life coaching again; I may travel again to places I’ve seen before. I may continue learning about subjects that seem, to some, only tangentially related to writing. I can’t even say when I begin delving into those subjects exactly how they are going to help. Sometimes we don’t know it all at the outset and we have to have faith that it all will make sense later. I know that whatever I have spent time learning so far has had an impact on my creativity, on what I write about, how I write, the words that come, the views that shape the words. I have seen it and felt it and discovered perspectives I might never have chanced upon if I hadn’t got off the Big Goal train in those towns that seemed to call to me and stayed there for a while.

I suppose there are many people around us who are not aware that you don’t have to follow a linear path to your goals. Everything you do along the way, because you felt, you had a hunch, it was the right thing to do at that time, is going to help you live your bigger picture. If you are a river whose aim is to meet the sea you may take a zillion different paths to get there, you may jump your banks as you maneuver along the way, you may ignore any limitations that a human (including, perhaps, you!) has set for you and go beyond them because you have to, because it is what you do, because it is part of your journey, because if you didn’t you wouldn’t be true to who you are and who you are meant to be.

Synchronicities and such treasures are not found along straight roads. Be flexible and don’t be afraid to go circular. You’ll find that when you follow your heart, your intuition, no matter where you go, you come back to yourself.

And also: Linearity is usually boring.