Is it only in the darkness that poetry can be written and have joy and love taken away the ability to write? I miss that author, that story teller, that mountain climbing woman with a cross to bear, because she could move with words. Her struggle inspired others. Her willingness to keep climbing, to keep sharing, to keep believing was remarkable. I miss the nights of writing and pouring out my soul for others in an effort to self interpret. I see a reflection of that soul and I love her.
Now, I sit in my beautiful home, at a perfectly appointed writer's desk, with an inspirational altar attended by Ganesha, Kwan Yin, Lakshmi and Saint Francis, and am lifted by ocean breezes. I admire a picture of the man that loves me as I love him, and feel the twinkle of a gorgeous nine foot Christmas tree that one of my darling soon to be step daughters called "catalog perfect" while a hummingbird visits my magenta December blooming geranium and I think, you have nothing to write about anymore.
It is a confusing paradox for the writer. I am calm. I am comforted. I am happy. I want to revisit the story of my past and evolve the chapters into a tale for more to read, but walking down that memoir's lane is foggy and seems disrespectful of my present. I wonder if perhaps, I am no longer entitled to that struggle.
And so I start again.... writing with questions - for the purpose of discovering more questions - because I have no idea what answers I am seeking, and even though I am quite pleased, I am still on a journey and must keep climbing.