Mine was a heart-sickness — neither physical- nor life-threatening. But it was soul- and spirit-threatening. For without trusting that it was safe to let the world more fully into my heart and my heart more fully into my words, I could never take my writing and life to deeper levels, never fully live the precepts I taught in my seminars and workshops.
I have always seen creative writing as a metaphor for creative living, believing that the principles that work for one unfailingly work for the other: faith, trust, surrender and openheartedness; vulnerability, truthfulness and flow. And, of course, being in the moment.
Opposing all of these is fear.
If fear no longer paralyzes me, it still occasionally slows me down. It’s the core issue of our time, triggering everything from writer’s block to war. It’s the only barrier to flow — of words, of abundance, of life, of love.
Many layers of fear had dissolved for me by the time I installed myself at 296 Champlain Road two days before my forty-second birthday. But more healing awaited, as it always does.
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