Praying with my fingers. Aching to be moving silently, swiftly, carrying thoughts and dreams and ideas from deep within. Holding them close, breathing into them–giving life. Keeping them, storing them, until they grow wings. Releasing, opening, unwinding, unleash the naked and beautiful skin. To feel the smoothness of lined paper that holds soft thoughts. Simply drenched in excitement of description, to be overwhelmed by the luxury of time, space, quite, thoughts.

To realize you are still watching and pushing my pen in forward, winding motion. With each stroke, pulling me deeper, higher up, further in. To know you are calling to me, pulling me deeper through the pages.

I do not understand it. And so, I write to explore it: poems to see its gentle bliss, stories to find its longevity, songs to deconstruct my thoughts…and thoughts to see the strength and grace of the lines. These same lines hold my frustrations, guilt, confusion, unexpected joy, excitement…it holds all that I can put before it. It takes me as I am–pulls at the very heart of my being. Where I do not bring all of me, it beckons me deeper. Where I have said too much, the page’s end comes sooner to remind me to use my words wisely. Where there are tears of ink blots, transgressions to ugly to fill the lines and gaps between my heart and that page-there, here is grace.

In this I know, but can never understand. I touch, but can never hold on too tightly.  It dances between my thoughts, my pen, my page & I am mystified, fascinated, and overcome.


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