This morning, I thought about joy. I pushed aside all else, I made a space, a quiet place, and I asked it speak to me:

Dear One, it said, you do know of me. You brought me with you, I fill your curls and fingers. And when you remember me, your curls and fingers lose their limitations and sense of separation. You no longer fit within those curls and fingers. You no longer limit your stride to ‘down the street’ in time and distance.

When you know I’m here, you wait for nothing, for time and its methods are no longer relevant or even true. You wait for nothing, for here—as you—within the unspeakable aliveness that is your vibrancy there is now certainty, a celebration, of you simply being you. You can see you have all That It Is at your fingertips, at the touch of your brush, at the sound of your voice, at the love in your heart toward another. You are everlastingly everything that is bright.

Joy. Nothing more need be added to you. Be that in your human dream and you will dream dreams that are new and fresh … and truthful. The truth is so unbelievably simple and good. They won’t believe you but don’t let that keep you from yourself. Just don’t shout it on the rooftops; tucked away in this little corner of cyber quietness, it is loud enough. Tiny, gentle mice stop by and are made glad to remember.

I remember someone saying that when you write, just wait for what bubbles up. I like that expression. I know that I possess something that will, invariably, bubble up.

However. At first it is painful to let it bubble up thinking I need to drag myself with luggage to the station from which it can take off. I usually feel I must effort to get there.

But—what if I just show up? Here I am, I can say. What have you to tell me today?

I am here, too, dear one. Uncluttered but for the raincloud of worldly ways that wobble and shake above your head distracting both of us from the tidy little path ahead, the one just there before us, waiting, as paths do so well.

You know there is no waiting in God, that has been said to you. But there is a waiting that is only the presence of Life—your own life, willing and able, supportive in stance, patient in unfoldment. It is this gentle waiting that fulfills your asking, your touch to keys, your pen to paper. You are a fertile meadow that keeps, unbetrayed, your belief in your self.

Do you remember the drawings you have made? Did you not think they were just nice little drawings, charming for being sweet but not having anything more meaningful to bring? You misjudged your drawings. You saw them as nothing. You saw them through the judgment you learned to believe in. You saw them with a sight that is the world’s and not your own. You do not think truthfully about what you create—or anything that comes out of you, for that matter. You approach creation with preconceived notions based on what you should do and been told to do by those not looking within. You make your work conform, just as you make yourself conform.

But the truth is this, your work has always told you the truth. It was never about artistic style and commercial acceptability and selling. It was always a conversation with the one you really are. You cannot escape who you are. (That idea bubbled up yesterday, too, and you posted it.) Embrace your creativity. Believe it. It is your true Being speaking. Feel its love for you and see it is your love for your self. That is the meaning in Creativity.

You love being alive and so you create. It just bubbles up … and over. It has to, for you are that ineffable joyful love.

It’s August and I’ve just come back into my computer after an absence; it’s summer and the humidity attests to it. What, I wonder, will be revealed in this computer that has been sitting quietly having nothing to say for itself outside a polite waiting for me. Does it know how uncomfortable I’ve become with all the new intrusive “updates” imposed upon us both? Is it uncomfortable, too? Fuss and bother now clutters the serenity of what was our simple approach to creativity.

This may be a machine, but it is aware. Trust me. It may have been invented by people with impersonal sensibilities, yet I know, I know, that as I start to write in it, an inner world emerges. A warmth comes that belies the sharp corners of its external presence and its internal chaos. When I tap keys, a door inside myself opens. It opens to reveal something so unexpected that I wonder once more about the depth of Reality and what it is made of and what it can reveal by means of me. By means of my fingers that are servants to my heart and soul. I write with a mechanical thing but I cannot escape what I am really made of. No matter the circumstances.

Isn’t that simply too wonderful? I cannot escape what I am really made of. I may fall, but I land upon Life. Even in a superficial world.

I do not come from here, I visit. She is the girl I am in this world. I know her well. I see her courage to please me, to be the best girl in the world she can be so that I can give my attention to this dream I am having. I chose her well this girl who was once a little child learning to be a little child, making her way through rooms of space and thoughts. She found herself in boxes. Boxes everywhere, but the biggest box, which was such a tight little box, was herself. In a body that now contained her and did not allow her to move as she knew she could move, should move, and even now wanted to move. Why had it all stopped?

Many things were stalled, becoming stagnant. Her mind once untroubled with pins and needles of obedience, lost its freedom. Each thought, each instant was examined to understand if she was doing it right. Getting it right. The Now had become something to answer to, not something to fully expand into with open arms and confident joy. Was she meant to find a treasure in all this immobility?

I am grateful for her courage. So much growth is happening for me from her daring. I truly love my human self.

Golden leaves are falling from the tree outside my window. Bright golden leaves that flutter to the ground to reveal Beauty. Most people walk over them or discard them as a nuisance. Still, now and then, a hopeful heart will reach down and pick one up and slip it into the pages of her book. Tender parts of life live in a few such pages.

My thoughts, too, are like golden leaves flowing from my mind to the movement of the world before me, bringing heartfelt traces of the meaningful lace of my truest self. All about this place is a golden pattern dressing our world in love and beauty able to be seen in all faces and certain books. It waits patiently to be acknowledged. Nothing else matters, really.