Scrambled Eggs, Fleas, Pink Toenails, Fluffy Clouds, and God Stuff

I started thinking about what I’m writing about which halted my writing for a few days.Thinking is not my friend when it comes to expressions of the heart.Once I’m thinking about it I feel like that spark part gets lost in brain which produces something different, less human, more artificial, slicker, than what I’m most curious about now.

My brain says things like:  Maybe that’s the natural progression?  You’ve been at this for a while, it could be time to hone in on a topic, a target, and speak more consistently to that. 

Aren’t you ashamed — embarrassed — to keep writing about Cleo the cat’s ailments and tortellini and the agony of sectional selection?  Don’t you want to focus on the main event — the God stuff? The gratitude stuff? The connecting to the source and breathing into that day by day stuff?

And I’m Like:  Suddenly a fun little outlet has become work.  Suddenly the freedom I’ve looked for, and found, in the regular practice of “putting it out there” with no agenda only a small hope of perhaps being helpful to someone at some point (particularly myself), suddenly that sense of freedom goes bye bye and I’m holding myself to some standard of something and the whole point of the endeavor is gone.

So I will continue to put forth here whatever I want because I love being read but I love writing this way, about whatever I want, however I want, even more.  It’s like a living room dance party on the page.  You’re invited.  I’m gonna keep going. 

Thank you.

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