The thing about puzzles is, there’s a moment between when you have all the edges done, and when you have enough of the middle filled in to see what’s missing, what’s left.
Why is everything I try to do coming out stilted and slow today? I blame you. The general, faceless you. The you who keeps telling me I need to be smaller, wittier, brief.
Pagans like to say, “What is remembered, lives.” Memory is re-membering, the act of giving life to the past through rituals of witness.
Writing in a group setting is different, much more like praying together. Or sitting together in meditation. Being present to each other in-process, witness to the very act of soul-deep creativity.
It is enough to show up to this act of intention. Without the need to grasp what cannot be grasped. Without the need to name what cannot be named.
To hold my heart like a candle wick, steady, upright, held open to the presence of my gods.