Sunday, July 9, 2006


I write.
“Why” is something of a mystery to me.
Is it for the yet untold story?
Is it honoring what's inside,
what is given--
not dismissing apparently dismissable things
as insignificant?
Is it mulling over disparate
pieces of a puzzle
in hopes that another will
make a connection,
catch the spirit?
Is it for later reference,
incomplete notes scrawled down
for fuller re-membering?

I find that when I write--
even poorly or dully--
I am quite alive
and whatever is creative in me
breathes, expands,
finds expression.

Writing challenges all of me
that is conventional.
It's where I explore the world
that cannot be contained,
defined, controlled, pigeonholed,
or made to serve
lower purposes.

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