I used to write. A LOT. I wrote fiction, poetry, songs… Anytime I wasn’t actively engaged in something, I was stringing words together in my head. Describing the world around me, carrying on a conversation with God, constructing melodies. I thrived on the creation, drank thirstily from the well of dreams, hopes, and the beauty of language and sound.

I spent a lot of time writing, I spent many years making much of it public. I posted as much as I could, expressing myself the only way I knew how, seeking to be seen, somehow, someway, by anyone.

These days, not so much. It might be just the season I’m in, it might just be that the water in the well has run a bit low, it might not. Who can say? Muses are fickle creatures, after all.

In the meantime, I am addicted to Life. To the experience of Living, wholly, completely, and fully, as I never have before. It’s as if I have finally woken from a deep sleep, and am alive in high-definition, where every touch and breath and sunny day is so much more than it ever was in my imagination. I am Being, thriving on existing, and there’s only so many words — sacred, mindful, meaningful, beautiful — I can find for the act.

Part of me feels like this is somehow wrong; I have, after all, spent most of my three decades here on this earth composing my narrative. Recording it all, as bards do. This is who I am, isn’t it? 

But the rest of me says No, because to record experience, you have to somehow set yourself apart from it. That this is just the other side of the coin.

And maybe it’s my time to let someone else do the recording, and the composing, and the writing.

Maybe it’s just time to Be.