Oh where oh where did the author go

oh where oh where did she go?

Way down deep,

where the waters of life

make a river upstream.

So what makes an author anyway? Even if we never get published?

My ten year old desire to be a published author went underground.  Not my desire to write though.  I became an avid journal writer. I wrote then as I do today to heal my soul. To find meaning and to seek answers to the questions in my life.  Writing also makes it okay to not know—to make a pact of peace with the mysteries of life.  The crown of writing, best of all, is to imagine what I want my life to be.

I found I could entertain with my writing.  My multi-dimensional intuitive memory in the 7th grade enthralled my classmates way beyond the recess bell to go home, with my tale of a group of people lost at sea in a small boat that gets washed ashore on the island of Atlantis.

A writer’s brain is uniquely wired. 

It has the ability to pick up myriads of data impressions, insights, intuitive downloads from all directions.  When I walk into a room my brain picks up data from all my senses from the 6th to the third dimensional realities.  Writing gives me the focus to bring order to the chaos from myriads of visual, mental, emotional, intuitive impressions from the events of my life.

Why bother to write if not to heal my soul?  Why bother to find an outlet to publish if not to serve others with my message?  I was surprised to learn when I was sculpting at the Nikora Ashram in India, 2009 (Chapter 35 of Mirror of My Soul), that my article published by the Dhyanyoga Center newsletter 18 years prior, which described the bliss of a deep meditation, was translated into Gujarati. The article gave inspiration and hope to my Indian brother and sister yogis.

An author is a writer in whatever form it takes.  Even before I realized the dream of being officially published, I was an author.  At the very least I have brought order to the unseen realms where collective consciousness dwells.





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