Ah, beginnings.  There is something raw and inviting about a spotless white page, the flashing cursor teasing me with its predictable disappearance act.  Why must it blink so incessantly?  Like Japanese water torture, the vertical black line burns my retinas with rhythmic hypnosis.   Write, bitch. I thought you had something to say.  This isn’t going to be easy.

Despite my best intentions,  this blog will inevitably begin like most beginnings, a traumatic and very vulnerable passing from darkness into light.  For the transition of birth holds its place in the cycle of life as a joyous and creative celebration cleverly disguised as violent and painful chaos.  From the safety of our mother’s womb, we come into this physical reality jolted, disoriented and completely dependent on others for our survival.  Exposed and half blind, we are welcomed to planet Earth by strangers in plastic gloves.  Yet, somehow this arrival is also our sacred and glorious introduction to humanity. 

The creative process, whether biological or inspirational, is a simultaneously blissful and terrifying liberation.  Often the birthing of truth mirrors our physical delivery, our thoughts thrust into expression, kicking and screaming and gasping for air.  It is a tangled fit of words and worry, passion and punctuation. 

So, here I am, naked and testing my lungs.   

Welcome to my world.

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