As Edith and I read yesterday, I experienced several “did I write that?” moments. Part of it is didionesque: we’re constantly moving away from where and who we are and we lose touch. But a bigger part, for me anyway, is discovering that when I write, especially when I’m in the flow and writing from the heart, I never write alone. There is grace and magic there.
Sometimes, it’s okay to let go and let Gladys. Fate and Free Will are sisters, and sometimes game day turns out just fine for both of them.
So, here’s that last tip about recognizing us, knowing when it’s really one of us. If the message feels like anger or fire, it’s not us. That’s you and your injured ego. If the message feels like a warm embrace or a sweet lullaby, chances are it’s one of us. And when you sense us, remember:
Then, like turning the page of a fairytale, it’s there: the clearing—flanked on the south by a wall of forest and thorns—and the old cabin.
The brain seems to jam up a bit if you’re overly giddy or smug about the shower crayon hack. Then, there you stand, naked, holding a crayon, facing a big blank shower wall.
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