Going Inkless

If you know me personally, you've probably heard the contents of this essay before. It's something I come around to every so often, a thought that both consoles and humbles. The world is round. We see circles and spheres everywhere, glimpse the roundness in the subtle curve of the horizon. The wheel of the year turns through the seasons and into the next year without stopping. Day rises out of night and descends there again. The moon waxes and wanes only to grow full again. On a more personal level, we experience this roundness in going out and coming home, inhaling and exhaling, and a thousand other round trips we make in our daily lives. This isn't a new idea. Philosophers and mystics, musicians and even farmers have recognized the wheels that turn the universe and tuned their lives to the cycles. All things come back where they started and move round again. Likewise, the tides of luck, relationships, energy, all obey this cosmic rule. It's tempting to see t...

Since before I could write, I've always had some sort of writing implement in my hand - pencil, pen, crayon. Drawing and writing are like breathing. There's magic in the scratch of the pen across an empty page and something sacred in the flow of spirit through the ink. Yes, the modern world has added a keyboard to the tool chest, but I must confess that much of what ends up inkless with me started out with that traditional magic of handwritten script. So, decades have passed with gallons of ideas poured out on paper- stories, notes, poems, letters, journals. Everything from shopping lists to love letters have made their way through my pen, and I've created whole worlds full of joy and anguish to satisfy that part of me that needs to write. I've heard it said before that a writer can't not write, and as clumsy as that sounds, it's completely true. Shutting off that valve just isn't an option. So, where does that undeniable urge lead me today? The answer, as i...