I had my artist's retreat this weekend that I wanted. I wrote. I made a reading corner in the window where I sat and read. I wrote more. I went to the farmer's market. I walked in the dark. I made my goals book. I realized there is a book living inside me that is bursting to get out. I started writing that book. I wrote other stuff.
It's funny how living in the wrong place can suffocate so much out of you that you don't realize was there, gasphing for air, until you are gone. And it can come into the light and the space and breathe.
(And thank you thank you to my readers.)
1 comment:
letting go, holding on, both are true.
digging in, digging out, true.
your freedom is my freedom.
your breath is my breath.
that is because we are not separate.
it just feels like that sometimes.
another one of our beautiful illusions.
enjoy these unmeasured moments.
namaste.
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