For me and for many YAGM, our year has been about discovering many new things, both those easily found in our new homes, and those less easily discovered as they lay deep within ourselves. One such discovery of my own has been a love of writing and the spiritual rejuvenation it offers.
Writing unmakes and creates me.
If forced to define, it is spiritual,
Fingers flying across keyboards or bound pages
As a spirit not entirely my own works through me
Spilling words and thoughts and images
Into works I don’t feel I can completely own as mine.
Before the first letter,
That exhilarating beginning,
I feel new,
Inspiration fanned into a flame roars through me
I cannot sit still
My hands must move
And I am lost in the trance of creation
As my reality is taken over by
Something wholly other than and yet entirely me.
Words fly from me,
Their genesis a place deep within my soul
That even I have rarely explored.
They come, uncalled, gliding to the surface,
Demanding to be heard
And I do nothing more
Than heed the call.
Awash on a wave I cannot understand
I must simply ride
Until breaking upon the sand,
I raise my eyes
And look upon a changed world.
After that last period,
I feel emptied, drained, hollowed out, used,
As I feel the spirit, the inspiration,
Settle down into embers
Awaiting the next stoking
But never completely extinguished.
I lay there, spent, unsure of what has happened
But knowing that I am changed.
And in that change, in the consumed hollowness,
I find a spark.
Little at first,
but it becomes
the next fire.