Finding stories, asking questions, mixing metaphors . . .

In the outbox, amid the ides of March . . .

The barriers we build within ourselves against love are fabricated from fear. This is akin to swimming against the Way of the Watercourse. Obviously, the removal of those barriers requires a letting go into the flow, a navigation that begins with an appreciation of the very stream with and of which we are comprised.

I have no time to rush. Nature is not other than you, me, we. If I am off in a trance, I'm missing the appointment I have with life. When my body and mind are at the same place and at the same time, that is the sacred moment of my continuing creation.

Already in a box, learned language and schooled. I write to get out of the box, notwithstanding the rules of grammatical symbols and their constraint. I write toward freedom – “bones” writing, “muse” dictated if I am lucky enough.

There are no inappropriate questions. All questions call for a response which opens new doors behind which are then new stories. Through those same doors, opening the other way, another set of questions. And yet more new stories.

The universe – this world – is not made of parts. The universe – “uni,” singularly united; “verse,” interconnected – manifesting with a rhyme and meter embracing chaos with a harmony of its own design.