One day you wake up and all the words seem to have been said, and somehow they are too small for what you want to say anyway, so you put your pen away and stop writing.
You get caught in the currents of life and other people’s words and dreams, moving in a stream of living that is only partly your own. You laugh and cry and feel and are mostly in love with your life…this beautiful-glorious-precious life.
And even though you’re acutely aware of the expansive Love that pulses through every particle of existence, and you fall to your knees in gratitude every day, the flame of desire and meaning has started to flicker.
Every other day, something catches your heart on fire, but it never seems to last. The beauty is still here, your eyes weep from it, but the pain of the world weighs heavy on your sensitive heart. A part of you is dying.
You begin to drown in the stories, the same words over and over again, recycled skeletons that once had meaning but are now just empty echos of what is Real.
You start reading romance novels to fill up time…or perhaps to find that part of you that once felt passion for the world and your place in it.
You turn on music and allow it to move you, as you search for a way to bring your own Song to earth in this life that has somehow grown too small for you.
Your Soul is calling you to write again, but you don’t listen. There are too many distractions and life is full and what’s the point…people aren’t listening anyway.
But one day you pick up your pen and begin again. The words feel flat and repetitive, empty and enormously boring, but the pages are here to be filled so you keep writing.
After pages and pages you begin to touch the face of your fear—the fear of not living fully, not loving enough. You thought it was gone, but you find a lingering shame for a life filled with such ease and grace in a world of so much hardship and despair.
You let yourself cry…buckets of tears for all the stories told and untold, for all the lives not fully lived, for all the love not freely given.
And even though you know your words can never be enough, that your life will always be just a dull reflection of this Diamond Light you feel inside, you vow to keep writing.
You are not writing a book, after all. You are writing (and righting) a life.