I'm gentler when I write. Is this some mutation of that biological maternal sense? It comes from me, so I feel tenderly towards it. Of course, with a baby we have to feel motherly- that which has been created is vulnerable and dependent. Can the same be said about my words?
Perhaps. The words have been gone for so long. They disappeared without a trace. And now that they've returned I want to cherish them. I tiptoe around my own feelings, wanting to coddle them to encourage them to further emerge. Is it indulgent? I'm not sure. It feels different to write without knowing if anyone will see the words. (Of course, I still write in a public forum so I'm obviously not trying to keep things private). But there is something that brings me great peace to bring these words into the world, outside the darkness of my grey matter.
I don't beat myself up over my words or what I learn about myself through their writing. It simply is. Perhaps it has to be- otherwise the words would stay hidden, lurking in shadows and weighing me down.
Once upon a time, Id say I felt compelled to tear the words from my corps, to rid myself of the clanging discordant noise. This is different. I certainly feel peace after writing, but not because I am free of some foreign object. It is like giving of myself, not ridding myself of something bad. I am happy and content to share. Not in an egotistical way, but I am for once cheered to play in this game of life as an active participant.
Lately the ole Wayne Dyer quote "how may I serve" has floated to the top of my thoughts. I'm not quite at a place to develop what that means, but it is simmering.
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