I am coming home again. The call came. I am being roused awake as if from stupor. A fair breeze wafts in on the words, the musings of others, the telling of their stories. They are the writers whose words I study and marvel at, whose words I soak in and relish everyday. The message comes clearly as sun bright blue sky uncluttered. It invites. It beckons. It calls me to that familiar place where I scribble my words and conjure up beauty and images and relive and revive emotions. The rousing stirs me to ponder and reflect as it playfully dances like soft caressing wind currents.
“Come. Play. Free the Words. Free your life. Free your life force. Let us go to new fresh dreams and visions. Let us warm ourselves before the bright, hot, fragrant sparks flying up from night fires, dizzying our senses in the deep wild blackness of woods.”
I am hearing this call again, this call to write. But this time, afresh. This time, I am being invited to play, to soar, to return to the garden. I am making my way back to the beginnings of the wonder that has ever been with me. I am making my way back to imagination, story, and adventure.
Here I stumble upon myself. I am startled to find I am one created, a masterpiece and image bearer with capacity to etch out the wonder and the mystery. Here gravity and other earth constraints do not limit. For I may fly, sail, voyage, discover, unveil, and heal without leaving the quiet small ordinariness of my chair. It happens in the reading, and it happens in the writing. There is so much living in the seeing of it and the telling of it. The unearthing of wonder and pleasure and new thought landscapes abound here.
Come with me. Ascend and transcend with me to the beauty, the holy, the sacred, the intimate union, to seeing and being seen, knowing and being known. Come with me.
The path is unknown to me too. I have never been here before. Should we venture out together? Shall we seek to find the wild free, the antidotes for the poisons, the return to the garden, together? Come with me.