I write as a bird flies. I am carried, moved by a force outside of myself. I have the gift, the wings, the intelligent design of hand, of body, of mind to harness it. I join myself to this creative force, become intimate, swallowed up, elevated from one world into another. I am not held by gravity, blocked by objects – it is open space, the only kind of space for a creative soul; for the bird of my heart. I dance in my spirit body here. I have a bird’s eye view of my life, my self, my world. I am set free, and I see from a freedom perspective.
I write as a bird flies. Fearless, trusting, vulnerable, joyful, unruly. There is no destination, just the joy of being carried, up up and away. Observing and recording all that is revealed on this flight. Only when a bird flies does its wings make sense. My curiosity, my deep longing for the indescribable, my search for home, my spiritual being. Only when I write does my soul make sense.