I am writing. A lot actually. But in pieces. Several pieces. Pieces about my freakish and demanding muse, about 20 year old black-blue incense of unknown origin and magical lovers from the past, about being a slut, about burning in Kali’s Fire and calling back my dismembered pieces, about the startling hardness of being an empty nester, and drilling down to the word essence of the work I want to do with people for a coherent business website.
In regards to the new business, I feel like I’m at the end of a creative pregnancy where I am ready to burst (much like my literal swollen belly the past week) with what is demanding to be born, but I’m being made to wait just a wee bit longer because it has its own timing, just like a human child. I need to remind myself that I am not entirely in control here. I am birthing something that has has its own beingness. I am here to birth and nurture, not force. This is coming through me rather than being made from nothing by me. It is a blend of my greatest passion and the world’s need and the Song of Belonging I hear playing in the background of Everything.
Big love to you on this Tuesday of being human.