My Morning Thoughts

Each morning my routine begins the same way. I awaken to the sounds of the birds outside my window, the early morning light beginning to seep through. I lay for a few moments, as I calm my mind to prepare for the coming day. As I lay there I sometimes allow those moments from the past to be heard in the darkened caverns of the mind. Their voices echoing in a past that I can not change but only look back upon. An examination of the soul, that place of deep meditation in the early quiet moments of the new day. I’m not some mystic, able to touch the face of God or to hear the voice in a burning bush, I’m simply a man, filled with doubts and fears trying my best to live into the calling of my vocation. There are times when I begin to doubt my faith, not my faith in God but my faith in the path I have chosen to take. There is the temptation to run and hide, to bury myself in busyness using it like a cloak of invisibility, joining with the masses who run around looking more like chickens pecking the ground for the few scraps. Being busy becomes the great disconnect, that way of not having to deal with anyone’s issues, including my own. To be intentional, to be attentive means having to let down that great barrier and be vulnerable to the emotions and feelings of being human. Looking out the window, just as the light of day begins to brighten the grey, I know somewhere deep within that there is also another light seeking to brighten the dark depths. The poetry that I write, although not great pieces, begin to take shape in those early moments, I see the words floating along as I begin to create. Sometimes what I see within is sharp and clear with no fuzzy edges, then there are those days when the words are a jumble, their meaning senseless, yet I write them down. I go over and over every piece, fine tuning the words, looking to make clear what I have written. Writing has become its own journey, it has taken me down long, winding roads into the deep wilderness of the self. I write a stream of consciousness, then I revise, then I write again, then I revise. I read it though first silently then aloud, I pick at the wording, try to make sure the grammar is almost correct. I try not to use the comma like a life raft. This week I begin another writing class, again I’m taking creative nonfiction. I will once again be challenged to explore the depths of my being, finding the words that best express my thoughts and feelings. The writing will be read and judged by others, and their comments will help me become better. At least in theory. After all, as I said, my writing is a journey through the wilderness. It’s not a yellow brick road, and I’m not off to find the Emerald City of publishing where the great and powerful Oz’s decide if your work is worthy or if you need to go after the witches broom stick

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