Success...Shameless Bragging

I stop in the middle of bliss to share my excitement. Finally, heaven right here, right now.

My many entries are testament to my struggle to live a more authentic life, a more God-centered, bliss-filled, confident and artistic life.

This morning, success.

The key. Following my heart, heeding intuition. Oh yeah, and loving, loving, loving everyone. The power of recognizing the love that is already present in our lives. A lot of words to say living a life of gratitude and freedom?

I haven't walked in weeks, not since I came back from TCI. This morning I was in the mood. I'd had a fitful sleep for two reasons. Firstly, it's hot. Not a fan of air-conditioning unless absolutely necessary, I slept with the windows open and ditched the blankets. The only problem with this is that as the air cools, I wake up every couple hours to add a layer of clothing or covering. The second reason would be an entry unto itself, but the sum of it was that the night before brought me even closer to understanding the power of accepting and appreciating the love in our lives in all its varied forms.

This morning I was able to follow my heart, take my walk. When I got home I didn't do my usual. Usually, after a Saturday morning walk, I take a shower while my chai tea steeps and then sit down all fresh and relaxed to read the morning paper. This morning my heart said do something different. I did.

After my long post-walk stretch, I did as my heart moved me, I turned on the computer to work on my book. Can you believe it??? Dear reader. If you've read anything of mine, you know that I talk about writing more than I write on most days. You've probably sniffed out that I am afraid of my power to write, that I fear my perceived inadequacy for the task, and that I come up with a ton of distractions, excuses and justifications for doing everything but actually writing this book for which passion burns in my bosom.

And here I was following my heart. I sat down to type. I don't actually "write" very often unless I'm sketching a scene or working out the plot lines through journaling.

This morning I worked on the writing. The words. This is the part I most fear, most dread. It is such a fine line between writing for an audience and simply writing from my heart while still taking care with word choice. The former creates trite dribble, the latter, when I can do it, creates stuff I love enough to fine tune in the manner a craftsman might work a block a wood until the sculpture waiting to be set free is allowed to display for all its perfected existence.

The intial scene I laid down on Thursday evening. I left work with a pressing need to hurry home and write. I heard and I obeyed. It was thrilling. I sat at the computer and began to type. That is what I was editing and expanding on this morning.

Thursday's pressing urgency made sense as I got home and started typing up the scene that came to me. The true gift I was to receive wasn't the scene itself but, finally, a view to the story's outline and structure.

I'm going to speak my truth and shame the devil: I shook and shivered and then stumbled from my back room where I type down the hall and then fell out on the floor in the center of my home. Dramatic, I know. And yet, it's the truth. It wasn't what I'd anticipated or expected. I thought I was just going to "receive" a scene. Instead, I got the book's structure, tone and a general sense of its organization and style. Unprecedented. It's like praying to God for a good meal when you've been having the same tired sustenance for days on end. You just hope it will be something hot and delicious...and different. He asks if you're willing to do what he asks for it. Desperate, you agree.

In this case, I agree to go home and type.

Having followed what he places in your heart, you open a door that you'd passed day after day after day, never noticing or giving it much attention. He says open it, you do. Inside is the spread of lifetime. Forget buffet. We're talking a refined, handsome waiter who delivers the most exceptional seven-course meal your imagination never could conceive. Only it's all the stuff you swore times past you didn't like. Turns out you like it just fine when the ingredients are fresh and the dish prepared with love. Good thing the chef chose the meal for you and you weren't given the option to dictate your own blessing.

Do you blame me for shaking, shivering and stumbling my way onto the ground in disbelief? The story isn't anything I'd have chosen for myself to work on and yet I am delighted with it. The way it is to be told scares me. (Yes, I'm deliberately evasive as I wait to fully make peace with it and receive a fuller vision.)

On the way home earlier that Thursday evening I listened to an National Public Radio show on books. An author was being interviewed. The universe at work. Something from the show combines with conversations I've had recently with a buddy and I realize I don't have to "like" what I write. I'm not saying I can write something horrid or that I'm detached from it. Just that I can stop waiting to absolutely, 100% love each and every aspect of my story. It isn't about me. It's a story. It's got it's own life. I was open to letting it be what it needed to be. Stumble, stumble, fall.

I've often equated works of art to children, and the co-creators--the authors or musicians or sculptors, etc.--to parent figures who nurse the work into existence, into maturity. I truly believe, even moreso now, that works of art, great or small, good or bad, are no less gifts given for safekeeping and care than children. Of course, I'm childless, so if I offend anyone who believes children are more precious than works of art, you are welcome to indulge yourself by considering it a reflection of my ignorance.

This morning the baby asked to be held. I didn't ignore it or make any excuses.

I sat at the computer and was shocked to see what beauty God had delivered to me for nurturance and development.

Success. The experience of writing. It's own joy. Bliss. Heaven on earth.

Co-creation is a joy.

Done writing about writing, back to bliss I go.

I'm a (true) believer...