i have learned that there is no distinction between the creation of art and freedom ... both are journeys closer to the divine, both require an awareness that is often met with human imperfection, a bumbling about for lost keys just found beneath a stack of boxes. and sometimes, you gotta craft keys with teeth and fingernails. there are bags coming undone and ugly. loose change at the toll booth. maybe all pennies. but you get there ... with no shortage of fierce courage and stubborn will.
each time i set out to write my way out of a cluttered landscape ripe with possible stories, i also find myself inside a thick quest toward some intimately crucial and inherently spiritual process of becoming more liberated, more giving, more open ... i write my way out of the hard spaces, the bitter juice life squeezed out of me, the often oppressive and less than truthful ways of knowing. i write myself into a transformation and healing with the knowledge that i am always and only getting closer to god. i surrender.
i have learned that there is no distinction between the creation of art and the sensual awareness of my body, it's hunger and full expression. this too is a walk closer inside god. when i get free inside the touch of my lover, we are creating a boundless space of divinity. i come with intensity and often. i receive what my lover gives back to me with gratitude. and i take that energetic exchange as seriously as i take the pen inside my hands, and the words that strive to reflect light born from the depth of our universal womb and its flow. there is god there. and there. it is all one.
when i am considering the culture of violence and the many lives we have bartered at the expense of global freedom, i am also writing myself closer to sanity and god-love. i am creating the antidote for the deathly blows against my body ... this body, which is inextricably linked to the world. and i am loving m(w)e out of silence, transforming hurts into awareness, because violence imposes silence. it depends on our consent. and we give that consent, submitting to murder and becoming murderers of self, soul, and world, whenever we do not speak, whenever we do not dance, paint, sing, whether the song/story/dance be one of sorrow or glory. it is all one.