When I pray in the morning, I have a list, certain people I consider beyond my family, goals I once again hand over to God. Often, half an hour of peaceful meditation, my thoughts ever returning to spiritual realms, passes beneath my bedroom window. I feel refreshed and in love with love. Yet there are days when I am not a serene flower of devotion, when my spirit aches to instead float into my nest, bend before the lighted alter of creativity and hammer out verses floating through my fresh morning vision, or bound into the kitchen and bake a cookie recipe I saw unfold behind my eye lids moments before full wakefulness. Work is worship. I give myself permission to pray as my aunt Alma did, one prayer for each stitch of an afghan. One prayer for each word, for every swish of the whisk.
Lately, when I sit down to write, other than during those blessed morning gifts of inspiration, I am studious, determined to pay attention, apply what I’m learning in class. I vow to develop a character, hash out an engaging plot, pay vague respect to grammar. I type ten words, sigh, delete, pause… breathe in deep, begin again. Twelve words later, I give up. Last night I listened to my soul. She took my hand, begged me to set aside knowledge, to pour my heart onto the page, go deep into whatever aches, whatever burns, live there, weep there, laugh, dream, and sing before an audience of angels. I know my way to that paradise. Relieved, I have once again set aside the unneeded-as-of-yet editor. A time will come when I must have her for tea. When that afternoon arrives, I will gratefully accept her contributions.
