It's not what you see, it's how you see it. I didn't always believe that. It took losing almost everything to understand what it actually meant.
You know that feeling? When you read a writer's words and it's as though they're writing to you, or about you — a kinship, a deep inner knowing, and suddenly you feel less alone. When art or music moves you before you understand why. When a film captivates you completely. When you marvel at the sky, or the small creatures of the earth, or a stranger's kindness for no reason at all. A song. An image. A sensation. A character on the page who says the exact thing you needed to hear. A scene where you catch a glimpse of yourself, or someone you love, in the words. That full, 365-degree human feeling — connected to something larger than yourself.
I don't chase it. I get still. I let the muse — the writing gods, whatever you want to call them — come find me instead. The eagles overhead. The hummingbirds. The ants at their small, exact work. All her creatures. The sweet stillness. The silence that isn't empty, just waiting.
That's what I write toward.
My current project, The Archivist, is a multimedia work of poetry, image, and narrative non-fiction. It celebrates life's beauty, sorrow, and complexity, and honours the human spirit's (psyche, soul) remarkable capacity for healing, growth, and finding its way home.
At the heart of me — and alive within my work — is a fundamental belief: there is boundless potential for transformation within all of us.
New work goes out once a month on Light of Hand. If any of this is your kind of thinking, come along.
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